EX     LIBRI5 
oo 


ALICE  AND  LEONARD 

BLOOMFIELD 


POEMS 


BY 


OWEN    MEREDITH 

[ROBERT  LORD  LYTTON]. 


LUCILE,  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE,  THE  WANDERER,  CLYTEMNESTRA, 

ETC.,  ETC. 


WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY. 
-Utorraioe  prrstf,  CambrtDgf. 

1882. 


SRtl 
URL 


CONTENTS. 


PAG* 

LUCILE 9 

THE  APPLE  OP  LIFE 150 

THE  WANDERER. 

DEDICATION.     To  J.  P 157 

PROLOGUE.    PART    1 158 

"II 163 

"    III 164 

BOOK  I.     IN  ITALY. 

THE  MAGIC  LAND        . 168 

DESIRE 168 

FATALITY 169 

A  VISION 170 

EKOS 171 

INDIAN  LOVE-SONG 171 

MORNING  AND  MEETING 172 

THE  CLOUD 173 

ROOT  AND  LEAF 173 

WABNINGS 173 

A  FANCY 174 

ONCE 175 

SINCE 176 

A  LOVE-LETTER 177 

CONDEMNED  ONES 180 

THE  STORM 180 

THE  VAMPYRE 182 

CHANGE 183 

A  CHAIN  TO  WEAR 184 

SILENCE 184 

NEWS 185 

COUNT  RINALDO  RINALDI 185 

THE  LAST  MESSAGE 187 

VENICE 187 

ON  THE  SEA 188 

BOOK  II.     IN  FRANCE. 

"PRENSUS  IN  JEajto" '  189 

A  L'ENTRESOL 190 

TERRA  INCOGNITA 191 

A  REMEMBRANCE 192 

MADAME  LA  MARQUISE 103 


vi  CONTENTS. 

THE   WANDERER  (c.mtinucd). 

THE  NOVEL 194 

Aux  ITALIKNS 194 

PROGRESS 196 

THE  PORTRAIT 197 

ASTARTB 198 

AT  HOME  DURING  THE  BALL 199 

AT  HOME  AFTER  THE  BALL 200 

Ao  CAFE  *  *  * 201 

THE  CHESS-BOARD 200 

SONG 206 

THE  LAST  REMONSTRANCE 206 

SORCERY.     To 208 

ADIEU,  MIONONNE,  MA  BELLE 208 

To  MIGNONNE J09 

COMPENSATION 210 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  PETER  RONSARD  : 

"VOICI  LE  BOIS  QUE  MA  SAINCTE  ANGELETTZ" 210 

"CACHE  POUR  CETTE  NCICT" 211 

"PAGE  SCY  MOY" 211 

"LES  ESPICES  SONT  A  CERES " 211 

"MA  DOUCE  JOUVENCE" 211 

BOOK  III.    IN  ENGLAND. 

THE  ALOE     .        . 212 

"MEDIO  DE  FONTE  LEPORUM" 213 

THE  DEATH  OF  KING  HACON 213 

"CARPE  DIEM" 214 

THE  FOUNT  OF  TRUTH 214 

MIDGES 216 

THE  LAST  TIME  THAT  I  MET  LADY  RUTH 217 

MATRIMONIAL  COUNSELS 218 

SEE-SAW 218 

BABYLONIA 219 

BOOK  IV.    IN  SWITZERLAND. 

THE  HEART  AND  NATURE 222 

A  QUIET  MOMENT 223 

VXSIJE 224 

BOOK  V.    IN  HOLLAND. 

AUTUMN 225 

LEAFLESS  HOURS      . 226 

ON  MY  TWENTY-FOURTH  YEAR 225 

JACQUELINE 226 

MACROMICROS 229 

MYSTERY 230 

THE  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE 233 

THE  PEDLER 234 

A  GHOST  STORY 235 

SMALL  PEOPLE 235 

METEMPSYCHOSES  . 

To  THE  QUEEN  OP  SERPENTS 236 

BLUEBEARD 230 

FATIMA 230 

GOING  BACK  AGAIN 236 

THE  CASTLE  or  KINO  MACBETH ....  237 


CONTENTS.  vii 

THE   WANDERER  (continued). 

DEATH-IN-LIFE 237 

KINO  LIMOS 237 

THE  FUGITIVE 238 

THE  SHORE 238 

THE  NORTH  SEA 239 

A  NIGHT  IN  THE  FISHERMAN'S  HUT: 

PART    I.    THE  FISHI.I;.MAN'S  DAUGHTER .  240 

"      II.     THE  LEGEND  OF  LORD  ROSENCRANTZ  .."....  241 

"    III.     DAYBREAK 243 

"     IV.    BREAKFAST 244 

A  DREAM 245 

KING  SOLOMON 245 

CORDELIA 246 

"YE  SEEK  JESUS  OF  NAZARETH  WHICH  WAS  CRUCIFIED" 247 

To  CORDELIA 249 

A  LETTER  TO  CORDELIA 250 

FAILURE 250 

MlSANTHROPOS 251 

BOOK  VI.    PALINGENESIS. 

A  PRAYER 253 

EUTHANASIA 253 

THE  SOUL'S  SCIENCE 257 

A  PSALM  OF  CONFESSION 257 

REQUIESCAT 261 

EPILOGUE.    PART   1 261 

"II 263 

"    III 266 

TANNHAUSER. 

TANNHAUSER  ;  OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS       ...                ....  272 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA 300 

GOOD-NlGHT  IN  THE  PORCH 340 

THE  EARL'S  RETURN 344 

A  SOUL'S  Loss 356 

THE  ARTIST 358 

THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY           361 

MINOR  POEMS. 

THE  PARTING  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  GUENEVERE 369 

A  SUNSET  FANCY 374 

ASSOCIATIONS 374 

MEETING  AGAIN 375 

ARISTOCRACY 375 

THE  MERMAIDEN 375 

AT  HER  CASEMENT 375 

A  FAREWELL 376 

AN  EVENING  IN  TUSCANY 376 

SONG 377 

SEASIDE  SONGS.    1 378 

II 378 

THE  SUMMER-TIME  THAT  WAS 379 

ELAYKE  LE  BLANC 379 

To .                                                         383 


viii  CONTENTS. 

Ml  NOB   POEMS  (coutlnufJ). 

QUEEN  GUENEVERE 883 

THK  NEGLECTED  HKAHT 384 

,\  i  IT  A  RANGES 884 

HOW  THE  SONO  WAS  MADE 384 

RETROSPECTIONS 885 

THY  VOICE  ACROSS  MY  SPIRIT  FALLS 885 

THE  RUINED  PALACE us.') 

A  VISION  OF  VIRGINS 

LEOLINK 387 

SPRING  AND  WINTER 

KING  HERMANDIAZ 389 

SONG 889 

THE  SWALLOW 389 

CONTRABAND 390 

EVENING 390 

ADON 891 

'     THE  PROPHET 391 

WEALTH 391 

WANT 391 

A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET 391 

IN  TRAVEL 392 

CHANGES 392 

JUDICIUM  PARIDIS 393 

NIGHT .  396 

SONG 397 

FORBEARANCE 397 

HELIOS  HYPERIONIDES 397 

ELISABETTA  SIRANI 397 

LAST  WORDS 400 


LUOILE. 

gtbtra&m, 

TO    MY    FATHER. 

I  DEDICATE  to  you  a  work,  which  is  submitted  to  the  public  with  a  diffidence  and 
hesitation  proportioned  to  the  novelty  of  the  effort  it  represents.  For  in  this  poem  I 
have  abandoned  those  forms  of  verse  with  which  I  had  most  familiarized  my  thoughts, 
and  have  endeavored  to  follow  a  path  on  which  I  could  discover  no  footprints  before 
me,  either  to  guide  or  to  warn. 

There  is  a  moment  of  profound  discouragement  which  succeeds  to  prolonged  effort ; 
when,  the  labor  which  has  become  a  habit  having  ceased,  we  miss  the  sustaining  sense 
of  its  companionship,  and  stand,  with  a  feeling  of  strangeness  and  embarrassment, 
before  the  abrupt  and  naked  result.  As  regards  myself,  in  the  present  instance,  the 
force  of  all  such  sensations  is  increased  by  the  circumstances  to  which  I  have  referred. 
And  in  this  moment  of  discouragement  and  doubt  my  heart  instinctively  turns  to  you, 
from  whom  it  has  so  often  sought,  from  whom  it  has  never  failed  to  receive,  support. 

I  do  not  inscribe  to  you  this  book  because  it  contains  anything  that  is  worthy  of  tl.e 
beloved  and  honored  name  with  which  I  thus  seek  to  associate  it :  nor  yet,  because  I 
would  avail  myself  of  a  vulgar  pretext  to  display  in  public  an  affection  that  is  best 
honored  by  the  silence  which  it  renders  sacred. 

Feelings  only  such  as  those  with  which,  in  days  when  there  existed  for  me  no  critic 
less  gentle  than  yourself,  I  brought  to  you  my  childish  manuscripts,  — feelings  only 
such  as  those  which  have,  in  later  years,  associated  with  your  heart  all  that  lias  moved 
or  occupied  my  own,  — lead  me  once  more  to  seek  assurance  from  the  grasp  of  that 
hand  which  has  hitherto  been  my  guide  and  comfort  through  the  life  I  owe  to  you. 

And  as  in  childhood,  when  existence  had  no  toil  beyond  the  day's  simple  lesson,  no 
ambition  beyond  the  neighboring  approval  of  the  night,  I  brought  to  you  the  morn- 
ing's task  for  the  evening's  sanction,  so  now  I  bring  to  you  this  self-appointed  task- 
work of  maturer  years  ;  less  confident  indeed  of  your  approval,  but  not  less  confident 
of  your  love ;  and  anxious  only  to  realize  your  presence  between  myself  and  the 
public,  and  to  mingle  with  those  severer  voices  to  whose  final  sentence  I  submit  my 
work  the  beloved  and  gracious  accents  of  your  own. 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 


PART    I. 


CANTO  I. 


i. 

Letter  from  the  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS 
to  LORD  ALFRED  VARGRAVE. 

"  I  HEAR  from  Bigorre  you  are  there.     I 

am  told 
You  are  going  to   marry   Miss   Darcy. 

Of  old, 


So  long  since  you  may  have  forgotten  it 
now, 

(When  we  parted  as  friends,  soon  mere 
strangers  to  grow,) 

Your  last  words  recorded  a  pledge  — 
what  you  will  — 

A  promise  —  the  time  is  now  come  to 
fulfil. 

The  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  re- 
turn, 


10 


LUCILE. 


1  dc.sire  to  receive  from  your  hand.    You 
discern 

My  reasons,  which,  therefore,  I  need  not 
explain.  • 

The  distance  to  Serchon  is  short.     I  re- 
main 

A   month   in   these   mountains.      Miss 
Darcy,  perchance, 

Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the  sum- 
mer romance 

Of  her  courtship,  and  spare  you  one  day 
from  your  place 

At  her  feet,  in  the  light  of  her  fair  Eng- 
lish face. 

I  desire  nothing  more,  and  I  trust  you 
will  feel 

I  desire  nothing  much. 

"Your  friend  always, 

"  LUCILE." 

n. 

Now  in  May  Fair,  of  course,  —  in  the 

fair  month  of  May,  — 
When  life  is  abundant,  and  busy,  and 

gay: 
When  the  markets  of  London  are  noisy 

about 
Young  ladies,  and  strawberries, — "only 

just  out "  : 
Fresh   strawberries  sold  under  all   the 

house-eaves, 

And  young  ladies  on  sale  for  the  straw- 
berry leaves  : 

When  cards,  invitations,  and  three-cor- 
nered notes 
Fly  about  like  white  butterflies, — gay 

little  motes 
In  the  sunbeam  of  Fashion  ;  and  even 

Blue  Books 
Take  a  heavy-winged  flight,  and  grow 

busy  as  rooks  ; 
And  the  postman  (that  Genius.indifferent 

and  stern, 
Who  shakes  out  even-handed  to  all,  from 

his  urn, 
Those  lots  which  so  often  decide  if  our 

day 
Shall  be  fretful  and  anxious,  or  joyous 

and  gay), 
Brings,  each  morning,  more  letters  of 

one  sort  or  other 
Than  Cadmus  himself  put  together,  to 

bother 
The  heads  of  Hellenes  ;  —  I  say,  in  the 

season 


Of  Fair  May,  in  May  Fair,  there  can  be 
no  reason 

Why,  when  quietly  munching  your  dry- 
toast  and  butter, 

Your  nerves  should  be  suddenly  thrown 
in  a  flutter 

At  the  sight  of  a  neat  little  letter,  ad- 
dressed 

In  a  woman's  handwriting,  containing, 
half  guessed, 

An  odor  of  violets  faint  as  the  Spring, 

And  coquettishly  sealed  with  a  small 
signet-ring. 

But  in  Autumn,  the  season  of  sombre 
reflection, 

When  a  damp  day,  at  breakfast,  begins 
with  dejection  ; 

Far  from  London  and  Paris,  and  ill  at 
one's  ease, 

Away  in  the  heart  of  the  blue  Pyrenees, 

Where  a  call  from  the  doctor,  a  stroll  to 
the  bath, 

A  ride  through  the  hills  on  a  hack  like 
a  lath, 

A  cigar,  a  French  novel,  a  tedious  flirta- 
tion, 

Are  all  a  man  finds  for  his  day's  occupa- 
tion, 

The  whole  case,  believe  me,  is  totally 
changed, 

And  a  letter  may  alter  the  plans  we 
arranged 

Over-night,  for  the  slaughter  of  Time,  — 
a  wild  beast, 

Which,  though  classified  yet  by  no  nat- 
uralist, 

Abounds  in  these  mountains,  more  hard 
to  ensnare, 

And  more  mischievous,  too,  than  the 
lynx  or  the  bear. 

in. 

I  marvel  less,  therefore,  that,  having  al- 
ready 

Torn  open  this  note,  with  a  hand  most 
unsteady, 

Lord  Alfred  was  startled. 

The  month  is  September  ; 

Time,  morning ;  the  scene  at  Bigorre  ; 
(pray  remember 

These  facts,  gentle  reader,  because  I  in- 
tend 

To  fling  all  the  unities  by  at  the  end.) 

He  walked  to  the  window.  The  morn- 
ing was  chill : 


LUCILE. 


The  brown  woods  were  crisped  in  the 

cold  on  the  hill : 
The  sole  thing  abroad  in  the  streets  was 

the  wind  ; 
And  the  straws  on   the  gust,  like  the 

thoughts  in  his  mind, 
Rose,  and  eddied  around  and  around,  as 

though  teasing 


Each  other.     The  prospect,   in   truth, 

was  unpleasing : 
And  Lord  Alfred,  whilst  moodily  gazing 

around  it, 
To  himself  more  than  once  (vexed  in 

soul)  sighed 
....."  Confound  it ! " 


12 


LUCILE. 


IV. 

What  the  thoughts  were  which  led  to 

this  bad  interjection, 
Sir,  or  Madam,   I  leave  to  your  future 

detection  ; 
For  whatever  they  were,  they  were  burst 

in  upon, 
As  the  door  was  burst  through,  by  my 

lord's  Cousin  John. 

CotrsiN  JOHN. 
A  fool,  Alfred,  a  fool,  a  most  motley  fool ! 


LORD  ALFRED. 
JOHN. 


Who? 


The  man  who  has  anything  better  to  do  ; 

And  yet  so  far  forgets  himself,  so  far  de- 
grades 

His  position  as  Man,  to  this  worst  of  all 
trades, 

Which  even  a  well-brought-up  ape  were 
above, 

To  travel  about  with  a  woman  in  love,  — 

Unless  she 's  in  love  with  himself. 

ALFRED. 

Indeed !  why 
Are  you  here  then,  dear  Jack  ? 

JOHN. 

Can't  you  guess  it  ? 

ALFRED. 

Not  I. 
JOHN. 

Because  I  have  nothing  that 's  better  to 

do. 
I  had  rather  be  bored,  my  dear  Alfred, 

by  you, 
On   the  whole  (I  must  own),  than   be 

bored  by  myself. 
That    perverse,   imperturbable,  golden- 

naired  elf  — 
Your   Will-o'-the-wisp  —  that    has   led 

you  and  me 
Such  a  dance  through  these  hills  — 

ALFRED. 

Who,  Matilda? 
JOHN. 

Yes  !  she, 

Of  course  !  who  but  she  could  contrive 
so  to  keep 


One's  eves,  and  one's  feet  too,  from  fall- 
ing asleep 

For  even  one  half-hour  of  the  long  twen- 
ty-four ? 

ALFRED. 
What 's  the  matter  ? 

JOHN. 
Why,  she  is  —  a  matter,  the  more 

I  consider  about  it,  the  more  it  demands 

An  attention  it  does  not  deserve  ;  and 
expands 

Beyond  the  dimensions  which  even  crin- 
oline, 

When  possessed  by  a  fair  face  and  saucy 
Eighteen, 

Is  entitled  to  take  in  this  very  small  star, 

Already  too  crowded,  as  7  think,  by  far. 

You  read  Malthus  and  Sadler  ? 

ALFKI  i>. 

Of  cou  i'M\ 

JOHN. 

To  what  use, 
When  you   countenance,   calmly,    such 

monstrous  abuse 
Of  one  mere  human  creature's  legitimate 

space 
In  this  world  ?    Mars,  Apollo,  Virorum  ! 

the  case 
Wholly  passes  my  patience. 

ALFRED. 
My  own  is  worse  tried. 

JOHN. 
Yours,  Alfred  ? 

ALFRED. 
Read  this,  if  you  doubt,  and  decide. 

JOHN  (reading  the  letter). 
"  I  hear  from  Bigorre  you  are  there.     1 

am  told 
You  are  going  to  marry  Miss  Darci/. 

Of  old  — " 
What  is  this  ? 

ALFRED. 

Read  it  on  to  the  end,  and  you  '11  know. 

JOHN  (continues  reading). 

"  When  we  parted,  your  last  wordy  re- 
corded a  vow  — 

What  you  will "  .  .  .  , 


"READ  ON  TO  THE  END  AND  YOU  "i.i.  KNOW."  —  Page  13. 


LUCILE. 


13 


Hang  it !  this  smells  all  over,  I  swear, 
Of  adventures  and  violets.     Was  it  your 

hair 
You  promised  a  lock  of  ? 

ALFRED. 
Read  on.     You  '11  discern. 

JOHN  (continues). 

"  Those  letters  I  ask  you,  my  lord,  to  re- 
turn." ... 

Humph  !  .  .  .  Letters  !  .  .  .  the  matter  is 
worse  than  I  guessed  ; 

I  have  my  misgivings  — 

ALFRED. 

Well,  read  out  the  rest, 
And  advise. 

JOHN. 

Eh  ?  ...  Where  was  I  ?  ... 
(Continues.) 

"Miss  Darcy,  perchance, 
Will  forego  one  brief  page  from  the  sum- 
mer romance 
Of  her  courtship. "... 

Egad  !  a  romance,  for  my  part, 
I  "d  forego  every  page  of,  and  not  break 
my  heart ! 

ALFRED. 
Continue  ! 

JOHN  (reading). 
"And  spare   you  one  day  from  your 

place 
At  her  feet."  .  .  . 

Pray  forgive  me  the  passing  grimace. 
t  wish  you  had  MY  place  ! 
(Heads.) 

"  I  trust  you  will  feel 
I  i/i'xire  nothing  much.    Your  friend  "... 
Bless  me  !  "  Lucile  "  ? 
The  Comtesse  de  Nevers  ? 

ALFRED. 
Yes. 

JOHN. 

What  will  you  do  ? 

ALFRED. 

You  ask  me  just  what  I  would  rather 
ask  you. 

JOHN, 
You  can't  go. 


ALFRED. 
I  must. 

JOHN. 

And  Matilda  ? 

ALFRED. 

0,  that 
You  must  manage  ! 

JOHN. 
Must  I  ?    I  decline  it,  though,  flat. 

In  an  hour  the  horses  will  be  at  the  door, 

And  Matilda  is  now  in  her  habit.     Before 

I  have  finished  my  breakfast,  of  course  1 
receive 

A  message  for  "dear  Cousin  John .'"  . 
I  must  leave 

At  the  jeweller's  the  bracelet  which  you 
broke  last  night ; 

I  must  call  for  the  music.     "Dear  Al- 
fred is  right  : 

The  black  shawl    looks  best  :    will   I 
change  it  ?     Of  course 

I  can  just  stop,  in  passing,  to  order  the 
horse. 

Then  Beau  has  the  mumps,  or  St.  Hu- 
bert knows  what ; 

Will  I   see   the   dog-doctor  ? "      Hang 
Beau!    I  willnctf. 

ALFRED. 

Tush,  tush  !  this  is  serious. 
JOHN. 

It  is. 

ALFRED. 

Very  well, 
You  must  think  — 

JOHN. 
What  excuse  will  you  make,  though  ? 

ALFRED. 

0,  tell 
Mrs.  Darcy  that  .  .  .  lend  me  your  wits, 

Jack  !  .  .  .  the  deuce  ! 
Can  you  not  stretch  your  genius  to  fit  a 

friend's  use  ? 
Excuses  are  clothes  which,  when  asked 

unawares, 

Good  Breeding  to  naked  Necessity  spares. 
You  nrnst  have  a  whole  wardrobe,  no 
doubt. 

JOHN. 

My  dear  fellow  ! 
Matilda  is  jealous,  you  know,  as  Othello. 


14 


LUCILE. 


ALFRED. 
You  joke. 

.InllN. 

I  am  serious.     Why  go  to  Serchon  ? 

ALFRED. 

Don't  ask  me.     I  have  not  a  choice,  my 

dear  John. 
Besides,  shall  I  own  a  strange   sort  of 

desire, 

Before  I  extinguish  forever  the  fire 
( )f  youth  and  romance,  in  whose  shadowy 

light 
Hope  whispered  her  first  fairy  tales,  to 

excite 
The  last  spark,  till  it  rise,  and  fade  far 

in  that  dawn 
Of  my  days  where  the  twilights  of  life 

were  first  drawn 

By  the  rosy,  reluctant  auroras  of  Love  : 
In  short,  from  the  dead  Past  the  grave- 
stone to  move  ; 
Of  the  years  long  departed   forever  to 

take 

One  last  look,  one  final  farewell ;  to  awake 
The  Heroic  of  youth  from  the  Hades  of 

joy, 

And  once  more  be,  though  but  for  an 
hour,  Jack  —  a  boy  ! 

JOHN. 
You  had  better  go  hang  yourself. 

ALFRED. 

No  !  were  it  but 
To  make  sure  that  the   Past  from  the 

Future  is  shut, 
It  were  worth  the  step  l>ack.     Do  you 

think  we  should  live 
With  the  living  so  lightly,  and  learn  to 

survive 
That  wild  moment  in  which  to  the  grave 

and  its  gloom 
We   consigned  our  heart's  best,  if  the 

doors  of  the  tomb 
Were  not  locked  with  a  key  which  Fate 

keeps  for  our  sake  ? 
1  f  the  dead  could  return,  or  the  corpses 

awake  ? 

JOHN. 
Nonsense ! 

ALFRED. 

Not  wholly.     The  man  who  gets  up 
A  filled   guest   from  the   banquet,  and 
drains  off  his  cup, 


Sees  the   last  lamp  extinguished  with 

cheerfulness,  goes 
Well  contented  to  bed,  and  enjoys  its 

repose. 
But  he  wno  hath  supped  at  the  tables  of 

kings, 
And  yet  starved  in  the  sight  of  InxaiioM 

things ; 
Who   hath  watched  the  wine  flow,  by 

himself  but  half  tasted, 
Heard   the   music,  and   yet  missed  tin- 
tune  ;  who  hath  wasted 
One  part  of  life's  grand  possibilities  ;  — 

friend, 
That  man  will  bear  with  him,  be  sure, 

to  the  end, 

A  blighted  experience,  a  rancor  within  : 
You  may  call  it  a  virtue,  I  call  it  a  sin. 

JOHN. 

1  see  you  remember  the  cynical  story 
Of  that  wicked  old  piece  of  Experience. 

—  a  hoary 
Lothario,  whom  dying,  the  priest  by  his 

bed 
(Knowing  well  the  unprincipled  life  he 

had  led, 
And  observing,  with  no  small  amount 

of  surprise, 
Resignation  and  calm  in  the  old  sinner's 

eyes) 
Asked  if  he  had  nothing  that  weighed  on 

his  mind  : 
"Well,  .  .  .  no,"  .  .  .  says  Lothario,  "I 

think  not.     1  find 
On   reviewing  my  life,  which  in  most 

things  was  pleasant, 
I    never  neglectea,    when   once  it  was 

present, 
An  occasion  of  pleasing  myself.     On  the 

whole, 
I  have  naugbt  to  regret "  ;  .  .  .  and  so, 

smiling,  his  soul 
Took  its  flight  from  this  world. 

ALFRED. 

Well,  Regret  or  Remorse, 
Which  is  best  ? 

JOHN. 

Why,  Regret. 

ALFRED. 

Xo  ;  Remorse,  Jack,  of  course  ; 
For  the  one  is  related,  be  sure,  to  tho 
Other, 


LUCILE. 


15 


Regret  is  a  spiteful  old  maid  ;  but  her 

brother, 
Remorse,   though  a  widower  certainly, 

yet 
Has  been  wed  to  young  Pleasure.     Dear 

Jack,  hang  Regret ! 

JOHN. 
Bref !  you  mean,  then,  to  go  ? 


ALFRED. 


Bref!   I  do. 
JOHN. 

One  word  .  .  .  stay  ! 
Are  you  really  in  love  with  Matilda  ? 


Love,  eh  ? 


ALFRED. 
What  a  question  !     Of  course. 

JOHN. 

Were  you  really  in  love 
With  Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

ALFRED. 

What ;  Lucile  ?    No,  by  Jove, 
Never  really. 

JOHN. 
She 's  pretty  ? 

ALFRED. 

Decidedly  so. 
At  least,  so  she  was,  some  ten  summers 

ago. 
As  soft  and  as  sallow  as  Autumn,  —  with 

hair 
Neither  black,  nor  yet  brown,  but  that 

tinge  which  the  air 
Takes  at  eve  in  September,  when  night 

lingers  lone 
Through  a  vineyard,  from   beams  of  a 

slow-setting  sun. 
Eyes  —  the   wistful  gazelle's  ;    the   fine 

foot  of  a  fairy  ; 
And  a  hand  fit  a  fay's  wand  to  wave,  — 

white  and  airy  ; 
A  voice  soft  and  sweet  as  a  tune  that 

one  knows. 
Something   in  her  there   was,  set  you 

thinking  of  those 
Strange  backgrounds  of  Raphael  .   .   . 

that  hectic  and  deep 
Brief  twilight  in  which  southern  suns 

fall  asleep. 


JOHN. 

Coquette  ? 

ALFRED. 
Not  at  all.     'T  was  her  own  fault.     Not 

she  ! 
I  had  loved  her  the  better,  had  she  less 

loved  me. 
The  heart  of  a  man  's  like  that  delicate 

weed 
Which  requires  to  be  trampled  on,  boldly 

indeed, 
Ere  it  give  forth  the  fragrance  you  wish 

to  extract. 
'T  is  a  simile,  trust  me,  if  not  new,  exact. 

JOHN. 
Women  change  so. 

ALFRED. 

Of  course. 

JOHN. 

And,  unless  rumor  errs, 
I  believe  that,  last  year,  the  Comtesse 

de  Nevers  * 

Was  at  Baden  the  rage,  —  held  an  abso- 
lute court 
Of  devoted    adorers,    and  really   made 

sport 
Of  her  subjects. 

ALFRED. 
Indeed  ! 

JOHN. 

When  she  broke  off  with  you 
Her  engagement,  her  heart  did  not  break 
with  it  ? 

ALFRED. 
Pooh! 


*  O  Shakespeare !    how  couldst    thou   ask 

"  What 's  in  a  name  ?  " 

T  is  the  devil 's  in  it  when  a  bard  has  to  frame 
English  rhymes  for  alliance  with  names  that 

are  French  ; 
And  in  these  rhymes  of  mine,  well  I  know  that 

I  trench 

All  too  far  on  that  license  which  critics  refuse. 
With  just  right,  to  accord  to  a  well-brought-up 

Muse. 

Yet,  though  faulty  the  union,  in  many  a  line, 
'Twixt  my  British-born  verse  and  my  French 

heroine, 

Since,  however  auspiciously  wedded  they  be, 
There  is  many  a  pair  that  yet  cannot  ajnve, 
Your  forgiveness   for   this  pair  the  author  in- 
vites. 
Whom  necessity,  not  inclination,  unites- 


16 


LUCILE. 


Pray  would  you  have  had  her  dress  al- 
ways in  Mack, 

And  shut  herself  up  in  a  convent,  dear 
.Jack  ? 

Brides,  't  was  my  fault  the  engagement 
was  broken. 


Most  likely. 


JOHN. 
How  was  it  ? 

ALFKED. 


The  tale  is  soon  spoken. 
She  bored  me.     I  showed  it.     She  saw 

it.     What  next  ? 
She  reproached.     I  retorted.     Of  course 

she  was  vexed. 
I  was  vexed  that  she  was  so.    She  sulked. 

So  did  I. 
If  I  asked  her  to  sing,  she  looked  ready 

to  cry. 
I  was  contrite,  submissive.    She  softened. 

I  hardened. 
At  noon  I  was  banished.     At  eve  I  was 

pardoned. 
She  said  I  had  no  heart.     1  said  she  had 

no  reason. 
I  swore  she  talked  nonsense.   She  sobbed 

I  talked  treason. 
In  short,  my  dear  fellow,  't  was  time,  as 

you  see, 
Things  should  come  to  a  crisis,  and  finish. 

'T  was  she 
By  whom  to  that  crisis  the  matter  was 

brought. 
She  released  me.    I  lingered.    I  lingered, 

she  thought, 
With  too  sullen  an  aspect.     This  gave 

me,  of  course, 
The  occasion  to  fly  in  a  rage,  mount  my 

horse, 
And   declare  myself   uncomprehended. 

And  so 
We  parted.     The  rest  of  the  stoiy  you 

know. 

JOHN. 
No,  indeed. 

ALFRED. 

Well,  we  parted.  Of  course  we  could  not 
Continue  to  meet,  as  before,  in  one  spot. 
Yon  conceive  it  was  awkward  ?  Even 

Don  Ferdinando 
Can  do,  you  remember,  no  more  than 

he  can  do. 
I  think  that  I  acted  exceedingly  well, 


Considering  the  time  when  this  rupture 
befell, 

For  Paris  was  charming  just  then.     It 
deranged 

All  my  plans  for  tin-  winter.    I  asked  to 
be  changed,  — 

Wrote   for  Naples,  then  vacant, — ob- 
tained it,  —  and  so 

Joined  my  new  post  at  once  ;  but 
reached  it,  when  lo  ! 

My  first  news   from  Paris  informs  me 
Lucile 

Is  ill,  and  in  danger.     Conceive  what  I 
feel. 

I  fly  back.    I  find  her  recovered,  but  yet 

Looking  pale.     I  am  seized  with  a  con- 
trite regret ; 

I  ask  to  renew  the  engagement. 

JOHN. 

And  she  T 
ALFRED. 

Reflects,  but  declines.     We  part,  swear- 
ing to  be 
Friends  ever,    friends  only.     All  that 

sort  of  thing  ! 

We  each  keep  our  letters  ...  a  por- 
trait ...  a  ring  .  .  . 
With  a  pledge  to  return  them  whenever 

the  one 
Or  the  other  shall  call  for  them  back. 


JOHN. 


ALFRED. 


Pray  go  on. 


My  story  is  finished.    Of  course  I  enjoin 

On  Lucile  all  those  thousand  good  max- 
ims we  coin 

To  supply  the  grim  deficit  found  in  our 
days, 

When  Love  leaves  them  bankrupt  I 
preach.  She  obeys. 

She  goes  out  in  the  world  ;  takes  to 
dancing  once  more,  — 

A  pleasure  she  rarely  indulged  in  before. 

I  go  back  to  my  post,  and  collect  (I  must 
own 

T  is  a  taste  I  had  never  before,  my  dear 
John) 

Antiques  and  small  Elzevirs.  Heigh- 
ho  !  now,  Jack, 

You  know  all. 

JOHN  (nfttr  a  paute). 
You  are  really  resolved  to  go  back  T 


LUCILE. 


17 


ALFRED. 
Eh,  where  ? 

JOHN. 

To  that  worst  of  all  places,  —  the  past. 
You  remember  Lot's  wife  ? 

ALFRED. 

'T  was  a  promise  when  last 
We  parted.     My  honor  is  pledged  to  it. 


Well, 


JOHN. 
What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do  ? 

ALFRED. 

You  must  tell 
Matilda,   I   meant  to  have  called  —  to 

leave  word  — 
To  explain  —  but  the  time  was  so  press- 


ing— 


JOHN. 


My  lord, 
Your  lordship's  obedient !  I  really  can't 


ALFRED. 
You  wish  then  to  break  off  my  marriage  ? 

JOHN. 

No,  no  ! 
But  indeed  I  can't  see  why  yourself  you 

need  take 
These  letters. 

ALFRED. 
Not  see  ?   would  you  have  me,   then, 

break 
A  promise  my  honor  is  pledged  to  ? 


JOHN  (humming). 
And  away  !  said  tlie  stranger  "... 


,  off, 


ALFRED. 
0,  good  !  0,  you  scoff ! 

JOHN. 
At  what,  my  dear  Alfred  ? 

ALFRED. 

At  all  things  ! 

JOHN. 

Indeed  ? 
ALFRED. 

Yes  ;  I  see  that  your  heart  is  as  dry  as 
a  reed : 


That  the  dew  of  your  youth  is  rubbed  off 

you  :  I  see 
You  have  no  feeling  left  in  you,  even 

for  me  ! 
At  honor  you  jest ;  you  are  cold  as  a 

stone 
To  the  warm  voice  of  friendship.    Belief 

you  have  none  ; 
You  have  lost  faith  in  all  things.     You 

carry  a  blight 
About  with  you  everywhere.      Yes,  at 

the  sight 
Of  such  callous  indifference,  who  could 

be  calm  ? 
I  must  leave  you  at  once,  Jack,  or  else 

the  last  balm 
That  is  left  me  in  Gilead  you'll  turn 

into  gall. 
Heartless,  cold,  unconcerned  .  .  . 

JOHN. 

Have  you  done  ?    Is  that  all  ? 
Well,  then,  listen  to  me  !     I  presume 

when  you  made 
Up  your  mind  to  propose  to  Miss  Darcy, 

•you  weighed 

All  the  drawbacks  against  the  equiva- 
lent gains, 
Ere  you  finally  settled  the  point.    What 

remains 
But  to  stick  to  your  choice  ?    You  want 

money  :  't  is  here. 

A  settled  position  :  't  is  yours.     A  ca- 
reer : 
You   secure  it.      A  wife,    young,    and 

pretty  as  rich, 
Whom  all   men  will  envy  you.     Why 

must  you  itch 
To  be  running  away,  on  the  eve  of  all 

this, 
To  a  woman  whom  never  for  once  did 

you  miss 
All  these  years  since  you  left  her  ?    Who 

knows  what  may  hap  ? 
This  letter  —  to  me  —  is  a  palpable  trap. 
The  woman  has  changed  since  you  knew 

her.     Perchance 
She    yet   seeks    to   renew  her  youth's 

broken  romance. 
When  women  begin  to  feel  youth  and 

their  beauty 
Slip  from  them,  they  count  it  a  sort  of 

a  duty 

To  let  nothing  else  slip  away  unsecured 
Which  these,  while  they  lasted,  might 

once  have  procured, 


18 


LUCFLE. 


Lucile  's  a  coquette  to  the  end  of  her 

fingers, 
1  will  stake  my  last   farthing.     Perhaps 

the  wish  lingers 
To  recall  the  once  reckless,  indifferent 

lover 
To  the  feet  he  has  left ;  let  intrigue  now 

recover 
What  truth  could  not  keep.     'Twere  a 

vengeance,  no  doubt  — 
A  triumph  ;  —  but  why  must  you  bring 

it  about  ? 
You  are  risking  the  substance  of  all  that 

you  schemed 
To  obtain  ;   and  for  what  ?   some  mad 

dream  you  have  dreamed  ! 

ALFRED. 

But  there 's  nothing  to  risk.  You  ex- 
aggerate, Jack. 

You  mistake.  In  three  days,  at  the  most, 
I  am  back. 

JOHN. 

Ay,  but  how  ?  .  .  .  discontented,  unset- 
tled, upset, 

Bearing  with  you  a  comfortless  twinge 
of  regret ; 

Preoccupied,  sulky,  and  likely  enough 

To  make  your  betrothed  break  off  all  in 
a  huff. 

Three  days,  do  you  say  ?  But  in  three 
days  who  knows 

What  may  happen  ?  I  don't,  nor  do  you, 
I  suppose. 


Of  all  the  good  things  in  this  good  world 

around  us, 
The  one  most  abundantly  furnished  and 

found  us, 
And  which,   for  that  reason,   we  least 

care  alx>ut, 
And  can  best  spare  our  friends,  is  good 

counsel,  no  doubt. 
I-'it  advice,   when  'tis  sought   from   a 

friend  (though  civility 
May  forbid  to  avow  it),  means  mere  lia- 
bility 
In  the  bill  we  already  have  drawn  on 

Remorse, 
Which  we  deem  that  a  true  friend  is 

bound  to  indorse. 
A  mere  lecture  on  debt  from  that  friend 

is  a  bore. 


Thus,  the  better  his  cousin's  advi' 
the  more 

Alfred  Vargrave  with  angry  resentment 
opposed  it. 

And,  having  the  worst  of  the  contest,  he 
closed  it 

With  so  firm  a  resolve  his  bad  ground 
to  maintain, 

That,    sadly  perceiving  resist  aim    \\;^ 
vain, 

And  argument  fruitless,  the  amiable  Jack 

Came  to  terms,  and  assisted  his  cousin 
to  pack 

A  slender  valise  (the  one  small  conde- 
scension 

Which  his  final  remonstrance  obtained), 
whose  dimension 

Excluded  large  outfits  ;  and*  cursing  his 
stars,  he 

Shook    hands   with  his  friend  and  re- 
turned to  Miss  Darcy. 


Lord  Alfred,  when  last  to  the  window 
he  turned, 

Ere  he  locked  up  and  quitted  his  cham- 
ber, discerned 

Matilda  ride  by,  with  her  cheek  beam- 
ing bright 

In  what  Virgil  has  called  "  Youth's  pur- 
pureal  light " 

(I  like  the  expression,  and  can't  find  a 
better). 

He  sighed  as  he  looked  at  her.  Did  he 
regret  her  ? 

In  her  habit  and  hat,  with  her  glad 
golden  hair, 

As  airy  and  blithe  as  a  blithe  bird  in  air, 

And  her  arch  rosy  lips,  and  her  eager 
blue  eyes, 

With  their  little  impertinent  look  of  sur- 
prise, 

And  her  round  youthful  figure,  and  fair 
neck,  below 

The  dark  drooping  feather,  as  radiant  as 
snow,  — 

I  can  only  declare,  that  if  /  had  the 
chance 

Of  passing  three  days  in  the  exquisite 
glance 

Of  those  eyes,  or  caressing  the  hand  that 
now  petted 

That  fine  English  mare,  I  should  much 
have  regretted 

Whatever  might  lose  me  one  little  half- 
hour 


"DISCERNED  MATILDA  RIDE  BY  WITH  HER  CHEEK  BEAMING  BRIGHT.' 


LUCILE. 


19 


Of  a  pastime  so  pleasant,  when  once  in 

my  power. 
For,  if  one  drop  of  milk  from  the  bright 

Milky-Way 
Could  turn  into  a  woman,  't  would  look, 

I  dare  say, 
Not  more  fresh  than  Matilda  was  looking 

that  day. 


But,  whatever  the  feeling  that  prompted 
the  sigh 

With  which  Alfred  Vargrave  now 
watched  her  ride  by, 

I  can  only  affirm  that,  in  watching  her 
ride, 

As  he  turned  from  the  window,  he  cer- 
tainly sighed. 


CANTO  II. 


Letter  from  LORD  ALFRED  VARGRAVE 

fc  the  COMTESSE  DE  NfiVEKS. 

"  BIGORRE,  Tuesday. 
"  Your  note,  Madam,  reached  me  to-day, 

at  Bigorre, 

And  commands  (need  I  add  ?)  my  obedi- 
ence.    Before 
The  night  I  shall  be  at  Serchon,  —  where 

a  line, 

If  sent  to  Duval's,  the  hotel  where  I  dine, 
Will  find  me,  awaiting  your  orders.     Re- 
ceive 
My  respects. 

"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  A.  VARGRAVE. 

"  I  leave 
In  an  hour." 

II. 

In  an  hour  from  the  time  he  wrote  this, 
Alfred  Vargrave,  in  tracking  a  mountain 

abyss, 
Gave    the   rein  to   his   steed   and   his 

thoughts,  and  pursued, 
In  pursuing  his  course  through  the  blue 

solitude, 

The  reflections  that  journey  gave  rise  to. 

And  here 

(Because,  without  some  such  precaution, 

I  fear 

You  might  fail  to  distinguish  them  each 
from  the  rest 


!  Of  the  world  they  belong  to  ;  whose  cap- 
tives are  drest, 
;  As  our  convicts,  precisely  the  same  one 

and  all, 
While  the  coat  cut  for  Peter  is  passed  on 

to  Paul) 
I  resolve,  one  by  one,  when  I  pick  from 

the  mass 
The  persons  I  want,  as  before  you  they 

pass, 
To  label  them  broadly  in  plain  black  and 

white 
On  the  backs  of  them.     Therefore  whilst 

yet  he 's  in  sight, 
I  first  label  my  hero. 

ill. 

The  age  is  gone  o'er 
When  a  man  may  in  all  things  be  all. 

We  have  more- 
Painters,  poets,  musicians,  and  artists, 

no  doubt, 
Than  the  great  Cinquecento  gave  birth 

to  ;  but  out 
Of  a  million  of  mere  dilettanti,  when, 

when 

Will  a  new  LEONARDO  arise  on  our  ken  ? 
He  is  gone  with  the  age  which  begat 

him.     Our  own 
Is  too  vast,  and  too  complex,  for  one  man 

alone 
To  embody  its  purpose,  and  hold  it  shut 

close 
In  the  palm  of  his  hand.     There  were 

giants  in  those 
Irreclaimable  days  ;  but  in  these  days  of 

ours, 
In  dividing  the  work,  we  distribute  the 

powers. 
Yet  a  dwarf  on  a  dead  giant's  shoulders 

sees  more 
Than  the  'live  giant's  eyesight  availed  to 

explore  ; 
And  in  life's  lengthened  alphabet  what 

used  to  be 

To  our  sires  X  Y  Z  is  to  us  A  B  C. 
A  Vanini  is  roasted  alive  for  his  pains, 
But  a  Bacon  comes  after  and  picks  uj 

his  brains. 

A  Bruno  is  angrily  seized  by  the  throttle 
And  hunted  about  by  thy  ghost,  Aristotle, 
Till  a  More  or  Lavater  step  into  his  place  : 
Then  the  world  turns  and  makes  an  ad- 
miring grimace. 
Once  the  men  were  so  great  and  so  few, 

they  appear, 


20 


LUCILE. 


Through  a  distant  Olympian  atmosphere, 
Like  vast  Caryatids  upholding  the  age. 
Now  th.'  iiirii  arc  so  many  and  .small, 

disengage 
One  man  from  the  million  to  mark  him, 

next  moment 
The  crowd  sweeps  him  hurriedly  out  of 

your  comment ; 
And  since  we  seek  vainly  (to  praise  in 

our  songs) 
'Mid  our  fellows  the  size  which  to  heroes 

belongs, 

We  take  the  whole  age  for  a  hero,  in  want 
Of  a  better ;  and  still,  in  its  favor,  des- 
cant 
On  the  strength  and  the  beauty  which, 

failing  to  find 
In  any  one  man,  we  ascribe  to  mankind. 

IV. 

Alfred  Vargrave  was  one  of  those  men 
who  achieve 

So  little,  because  of  the  much  they  con- 
ceive. 

With  irresolute  finger  he  knocked  at  each 
one 

Of  the  doorways  of  life,  and  abided  in 
none. 

His  course,  by  each  star  that  would  cross 
it,  was  set, 

And  whatever  he  did  he  was  sure  to  re- 
gret. 

That  target,  discussed  by  the  travellers 
of  old, 

Which  to  one  appeared  argent,  to  one 
appeared  gold, 

To  him,  ever  lingering  on  Doubt's  dizzy 
margeut, 

Appeared  in  one  moment  both  golden 
and  argent. 

The  man  who  seeks  one  thing  in  life, 
and  but  one, 

May  hope  to  achieve  it  before  life  be 
done : 

But  he  who  seeks  all  things,  wherever 
he  goes, 

Only  reaps  from  the  hopes  which  around 
him  he  sows 

A  harvest  of  barren  regrets.  And  the 
worm 

That  crawls  on  in  the  dust  to  the  definite 
term 

Of  its  creeping  existence,  and  sees  noth- 
ing more 

Than  the  path  it  pursues  till  its  creep- 
ing be  o'er, 


In  its  limited  vision,  is  happier  far 
Than  the  Ualf-Sa^r,  whose  course,  fixed 

by  no  friendly  star, 
Is  by  each  star  distracted  in  turn,  and 

who  knows 
Each  will  still  be  as  distant  wherever  he 

goes. 

v. 

Both  brilliant  and  brittle,  both  bold  and 
unstable, 

Indecisive  yet  keen,  Alfred  Vargrave 
seemed  able 

To  dazzle,  but  not  to  illumine  man- 
kind. 

A  vigorous,  various,  versatile  mind  ; 

A  character  wavering,  fitful,  uncertain, 

As  the  shadow  that  shakes  o'er  a  luminous 
curtain, 

Vague,  flitting,  but  on  it  forever  impress- 
ing 

The  shape  of  some  substance  at  which 
you  stand  guessing  : 

When  you  said,  "All  is  worthless  and 
weak  here,"  behold  ! 

Into  sight  on  a  sudden  there  seemed  to 
unfold 

Great  outlines  of  strenuous  truth  in  the 
man  : 

When  you  said,  "This  is  genius,"  the 
outlines  grew  wan. 

And  his  life,  though  in  all  things  so 
gifted  and  skilled, 

Was,  at  best,  but  a  promise  which  noth- 
ing fulfilled. 


In  the  budding  of  youth,  ere  wild  wind* 
can  deflower 

The  shut  leaves  of  man's  life,  round  tho 
germ  of  his  power 

Yet  folded,  his  life  had  been  earnest. 
Alas! 

In  that  life  one  occasion,  one  moment, 
there  was 

When  this  earnestness  might,  with  the 
life-sap  of  youth, 

Lusty  fruitage  have  borne  in  his  man- 
hood's full  growth ; 

But  it  found  him  too  soon,  when  his 
nature  was  still 

The  delicate  toy  of  too  pliant  a  will, 

The  boisterous  wind  of  the  world  to  re- 
sist, 

Or  the  frost  of  the  world's  wintry  wis- 
dom. 


LUCILE. 


21 


He  missed 
That  occasion,  too  rathe  in  its  advent. 

Since  then, 
He  had  made  it  a  law,  in  his  commerce 

with  men, 
That  intensity  in  him,  which  only  left 

sore 
The  heart  it  disturbed,  to  repel  and  ignore. 

And  thus,  as  some  Prince  by  his  subjects 

deposed, 
/Vhose  strength  he,  by  seeking  to  crush 

it,  disclosed, 
In  resigning  the  power  he  lacked  power 

to  support, 
Tunis  his  back  upon  courts,  with  a  sneer 

at  the  court, 

In  his  converse  this  man  for  self-com- 
fort appealed 

To  a  cynic  denial  of  all  he  concealed 
In  the  instincts  and  feelings  belied  by 

his  words. 
Words,  however,  are  things  :   and   the 

man  who  accords 
To  his  language  the  license  to  outrage 

his  soul 
Is  controlled  by  the  words  he  disdains  to 

control. 
And,  therefore,  he  seemed  in  the  deeds 

of  each  day, 
The  light  code  proclaimed  on  his  lips  to 

obey  ; 
And,  the  slave  of  each  whim,  followed 

wilfully  aught 

That  perchance  fooled  the  fancy,  or  flat- 
tered the  thought. 
Yet,  indeed,  deep  within  him,  the  spirits 

of  truth, 
Vast,  vague  aspirations,  the   powers  of 

his  youth, 
Lived  and  breathed,  and  made  moan  — 

stirred  them  selves—  strove  to  start 
Into   deeds  —  though   deposed,  in   that 

Hades,  his  heart, 
Like  those   antique   Theogonies  ruined 

and  hurled 

Under  clefts  of  the  hills,  which,  convuls- 
ing the  world, 
Heaved,  in  earthquake,  their  heads  the 

rent  caverns  above, 
To  trouble  at  times  in  the  light  court  of 

Jove 
All  its  frivolous  gods,  with  an  undefined 

awe, 
Of  wronged  rebel  powers  that  owned  not 

their  law. 


For  his  sake,  I  am  fain  to  believe  that, 

if  born 
To  some  lowlier  rank  (from  the  world's 

languid  scorn 
Secured  by  the  world's  stern  resistance), 

where  strife, 
Strife  and  toil,  and  not  pleasure,  gave 

purpose  to  life, 
He   possibly  might  have   contrived  to 

attain 
Not  eminence  only,   but  worth.      So, 

Had  he  been  of  his  own  house  the  first- 
born, each  gift 

Of  a  mind  many-gifted  had  gone  to  uplift 

A  great  name  by  a  name's  greatest  uses. 
But  there 

He  stood  isolated,  opposed,  as  it  were, 

To  life's  great  realities  ;  part  of  no  plan  ; 

And  if  ever  a  nobler  and  happier  man 

He  might  hope  to  become,  that  alone 
could  be  when 

With  all  that  is  real  in  life  and  in  men 

What  was  real  in  him  should  have  been 
reconciled  ; 

When  each  influence  now  from  experience 
exiled 

Should  have  seized  on  his  being,  com- 
bined with  his  nature, 

And  formed,  as  by  fusion,  a  new  human 
creature  : 

As  when  those  airy  elements  viewless  to 
sight 

(The  amalgam  of  which,  if  our  science 
be  right, 

The  germ  of  this  populous  planet  doth 
fold) 

Unite  in  the  glass  of  the  chemist,  behold  ! 

Where  a  void  seemed  before  there  a  sub- 
stance appears, 

From  the  fusion  of  forces  whence  issued 
the  spheres  ! 


But  the  permanent  cause  why  his  life 

failed  and  missed 
The  full  value  of  life  was,  —  where  man 

should  resist 
The  world,  which  man's  genius  is  called 

to  command, 
He  gave  way,  less  from  lack  of  the  power 

to  withstand, 
Than  from  lack  of  the  resolute  will  to 

retain 
Those  strongholds  of  life  which  the  world 

strives  to  gain. 


22 


LUCILE. . 


Let  this  character  go  in  the  old-fashioned 

way, 
With  the  moral  thereof  tightly  tacked  to 

it.     Say  — 
"  Let  any  man  once  show  the  world  that 

he  feels 
Afraid  of  its  bark,  and  't  will  fly  at  his 

heels  : 
I, ft  him  fearlessly  face  it,  't  will  leave 

him  alone  : 
Hut  't  will  fawn  at  his  feet  if  he  flings  it 

a  bone." 

VIII. 

The  moon  of  September,  now  half  at  the 

full, 

Was  unfolding  from  darkness  and  dream- 
land the  lull 
Of  the  quiet  blue  air,  where  the  many  - 

faced  hills 
Watched,  well-pleased,  their  fair  slaves, 

the  light,  foam-footed  rills, 
Dance  and  sing  down  the  steep  marble 

stairs  of  their  courts, 
And  gracefully  fashion  a  thousand  sweet 

sports. 
Lord  Alfred  (by  this  on  his  journeying 

far) 

Was  pensively  puffing  his  Lopez  cigar, 
And   brokenly  humming  an  old  opera 

strain, 
And  thinking,  perchance,  of  those  castles 

in  Spain 
Which  that  long  rocky  barrier  hid  from 

his  sight ; 
When  suddenly,  out  of  the  neighboring 

night, 
A  horseman  emerged  from  a  fold  of  the 

hill, 

And  so  startled  his  steed,  that  was  wind- 
ing at  will 
Up  the  thin  dizzy  strip  of  a  pathway 

which  led 
O'er  the   mountain  —  the  reins  on   its 

neck,  and  its  head 
Hanging  lazily  forward  —  that,  but  for 

a  hand 
Light  and  ready,  yet  firm,  in  familiar 

command, 
Both  rider  and  horse  might  have  been 

in  a  trice 
Hurled  horribly  over  the  grim  precipice. 


As  soon  as  the  moment's  alarm  had  sub- 
sided, 


And  the  oath,  with  which  nothing  can 
find  uni>ioviilr<l 

A  thoroughbred  Englishman,  safely  ex- 
ploded, 

Lord  Alfred  unbent  (as  Apollo  his  bow 
did 

Now  and  then)  his  erectness  ;  and  look- 
ing, not  ruder 

Than  such  inroad  would  warrant,  sur- 
veyed the  intruder, 

Whose  arrival  so  nearly  cut  short  in  his 
glory 

My  hero,  and  finished  abruptly  this  story. 


The  stranger,  a  man  of  his  own  age  or 

less, 
Well  mounted,  and  simple  though  rich 

in  his  dress, 
Wore  his  beard  and  mustache  in  the 

fashion  of  France. 
His  face,  which  was  pale,  gathered  force 

from  the  glance 
Of  a  pair  of  dark,  vivid,  aud  eloquent 

eyes. 
With  a  gest  of  apology,  touched  with 

surprise, 
He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  and  courteously 

made 
Some    excuse    in    such    well-cadenced 

French  as  betrayed, 
At  the  first  word  he  spoke,  the  Parisian. 


I  swear 
I   have   wandered  about  in  the  world 

everywhere  ; 
From  many  strange  mouths  have  heard 

many  strange  tongues ; 
Strained  with  many  strange  idioms  my 

lips  and  my  lungs  ; 
Walked  in  many  a  far  laud,  regretting 

my  own ; 
In  many  a  language  groaned  many  a 

groan  ; 
And  have  often  had  reason  to  curse  those 

wild  fellows 
Who   built   the    high  house   at  which 

Heaven  turned  jealous, 
Making  human  audacity  stumble  and 

stammer 
When  seized  by  the  throat  in  the  hard 

gripe  of  Grammar. 
But  the  language  of  languages  dearest, 

to  me 
Is  that  in  which  once,  0  ma  tout*  chirit, 


LUCILE. 


23 


When,  together,  w«  bent  o'er  your  nose- 
gay for  hours, 

You  explained  what  was  silently  said  by 
the  flowers, 

And,  selecting  the  sweetest  of  all,  sent  a 
flame 

Through  my  heart,  as,  in  laughing,  you 
murmured,  Je  t'aime. 

XII. 

The  Italians  have  voices  like  peacocks  ; 

the  Spanish 
Smell,  I  fancy,  of  garlic  ;  the  Swedish 

and  Danish 
Have  something  too  Runic,  too  rough 

and  unshod,  in 
Their  accent  for  mouths  not  descended 

from  Odin  ; 
German  gives  me  a  cold  in  the  head,  sets 

me  wheezing 
And  coughing  ;  and  Russian  is  nothing 

but  sneezing ; 
But,  by  Belus  and  Babel !  I  never  have 

heard, 
And  I  never  shall  hear  (I  well  know  it), 

one  word 

Of  that  delicate  idiom  of  Paris  without 
Feeling  morally  sure,  beyond  question  or 

doubt, 

By  the  wild  way  in  which  my  heart  in- 
wardly fluttered 
That  my  heart's  native  tongue  to  my 

heart  had  been  uttered. 
And  whene'er  I  hear  French  spoken  as 

I  approve, 
1  feel  myself  quietly  falling  in  love. 


Lord  Alfred,  on  hearing  the  stranger, 


By  a  something,  an  accent,  a  cadence, 
which  pleased 

His  ear  with  that  pledge  of  good  breed- 
ing which  tells 

At  once  of  the  world  in  whose  fellowship 
dwells 

The  speaker  that  owns  it,  was  glad  to 
remark 

In  the  horseman  a  man  one  might  meet 
after  dark 

Without  fear. 
And  thus,  not  disagreeably  impressed, 

As  it  seemed,  with  each  other,  the  two 
men  abreast 

Rode  on  slowly  a  moment. 


XIV. 

STRANGER. 

I  see,  Sir,  you  are 
A  smoker.     Allow  me  ! 

ALFRED. 

Pray  take  a  cigar. 

STRANGER. 

Many  thanks  !   .  .  .  Such  cigara  are  a 

luxury  here. 
Do  you  go  to  Serchon  ? 

ALFRED. 

Yes ;  and  you  ? 

STRANGER. 

Yes.     I  fear, 
Since  our  road  is  the  same,   that  our 

journey  must  be 
Somewhat  closer  than  is  our  acquaintance. 

You  see 
How  narrow  the  path  is.     I  *m  tempted 

to  ask 
Your  permission  to  finish  (no  difficult 

task!) 
The  cigar  you  have  given  me  (really  a 

prize  !) 
In  your  company. 

ALFRED. 

Charmed,  Sir,  to  find  your  road  lies 
In  the  way  of  my  own  inclinations  !    In- 
deed 
The  dream  of  your  nation  I  find  in  this 

weed. 
In    the    distant    savannas    a    talisman 

grows 
That  makes  all  men  brothers  that  use  it 

.  .  .  who  knows  ? 
That  blaze  which  erewhile  from  the  Boule- 

vart  outbroke, 
It  has  ended  where  wisdom  begins,  Sir, 

—  in  smoke. 
Messieurs  Lopez  (whatever  your  publicists 

write) 
Have  done  more  in  their  way  human 

kind  to  unite, 
Perchance,  than  ten  Proudhons. 

STRANGER. 
Yes.     Ah,  what  a  scene  ! 


24 


LUCILE. 


ALFRED. 
Humph  !   Nature  is  here  too  pretentious. 

Her  mien 
Is  too  haughty.     One  likes  to  be  coaxed, 

not  rolllpcllrcl, 

To  the  notice  such  beauty  resents  if  with- 
held. 

She  seems  to  be  saying  too  plainly, 
"Admire  me ! " 

And  I  answer,  "Yes,  madam,  I  do  :  but 
you  tire  me." 

STRANGER. 
That  sunset,  just  now  though  .  .  . 

ALFRED. 

A  very  old  trick  ! 
One  would  think  that  the  sun  by  this 

time  must  be  sick 
Of  blushing  at  what,  by  this  time,  he 

must  know 
Too  well  to  be  shocked  by  —  this  world. 

STRANGER. 

Ah,  't  is  so 
With  us  all.     'T  is  the  sinner  that  best 

knew  the  world 
At  twenty,  whose  lip  is,  at  sixty,  most 

curled 

With  disdain  of  its  follies.  You  stay  at 
Serchon  ? 

ALFRED. 
A  day  or  two  only. 

STRANGER. 

The  season  is  done. 

ALFRED. 
Already! 

STRANGER. 

'T  was  shorter  this  year  than  the  last. 
Folly  soon  wears  her  shoes  out.     She 

dances  so  fast, 
We  are  all  of  us  tired. 

ALFRED. 
You  know  the  place  well  ? 

STRANGER. 
1  have  been  there  two  seasons. 

ALFRED. 

Pray  who  is  the  Belle 
Of  the  Baths  at  this  moment  ? 


STRANGEK. 

The  same  who  has  been 
The  belle  of  all  places  in  which  she  is 

seen ; 
The  belle  of  all  Paris  last  winter  ;  last 


spring 
Tl\e  belle  of  all  Baden. 


ALFRED. 

An  uncommon 

STRANGER. 
Sir,  an  uncommon  beauty !  .  .  .  I  rather 

should  say, 
An  uncommon   character.     Truly,  each 

day 
One  meets  women  whose  beauty  is  equal 

to  hers, 
But  none  with  the  charm  of  Lucile  de 

Nevere. 

ALFRED. 
Madame  de  Nevers  ? 

STRANGER. 

Do  you  know  her  ? 

ALFRED. 

I  know, 
Or,  rather,  I  knew  her  —  a  long  time 

ago. 
I  almost  forget .  .  . 

STRANGER. 

What  a  wit  !  what  a  grace 
In  her  language  !  her  movements  !  what 

play  in  her  face  ! 

And  yet  what  a  sadness  she  seems  to 
conceal ! 

ALFRED. 
You  speak  like  a  lover. 

STRANGER. 

I  speak  as  I  feel, 
But  not  like  a  lover.     What  interests 

me  so 
In  Lucile,  at  the  same  time  forbids  me, 

I  know, 
To  give  to  that  interest,   whate'er  the 

sensation, 
The  name  we  men   give    to  an  hour's 

admiration, 
A  night's  passing  passion,  an  actress's 

eyes, 
A  dancing  girl's  ankles,  a  fine  lady's 

sighs. 


LUCILK 


25 


ALFRED. 
Yes,    I   quite    comprehend.      But  this 

sadness  —  this  shade 
Which  you  speak  of  ? ...  it  almost  would 

make  me  afraid 
Your  gay  countrymen,  Sir,  less  adroit 

must  have  grown, 
Since  when,  as  a  stripling,  at  Paris,   I 

own 

I  found  in  them  terrible  rivals,  —  if  yet 
They  have  all  lacked  the  skill  to  console 

this  regret 
(If  regret  be  the  word  I  should  use),  or 

fulfil 
This  desire  (if  desire  be  the  word),  which 

seems  still 
To  endure   unappeased.     For  I  take  it 

for  granted, 
From  all  that  you  say,  that  the  will  was 

not  wanted. 


The  stranger  replied,  not  without  irrita- 
tion : 

' '  I  have  heard  that  an  Englishman  — 
one  of  your  nation, 

I  presume  —  and  if  so,  I  must  beg  you, 
indeed, 

To  excuse  the  contempt  which  I  .  .  ." 

ALFRED. 

Pray,  Sir,  proceed 

With  your  tale.  My  compatriot,  what 
was  his  crime  ? 

STRANGER. 

0,  nothing  !  His  folly  was  not  so  sub- 
lime 

As  to  merit  that  term.  If  I  blamed  him 
just  now, 

It  was  not  for  the  sin,  but  the  silliness. 

ALFRED. 

How? 

STRANGER. 

1  own  I  hate  Botany.  Still,  ...  I  ad- 
mit, 

Although  I  myself  have  no  passion  for  it, 

And  do  not  understand,  yet  I  cannot 
despise 

The  cold  man  of  science,  who  walks  with 
his  eyes 

All  alert  through  a  garden  of  flowers, 
and  strips 

The  lilies'  gold  tongues,  and  the  roses' 
red  lips, 


With  a  ruthless  dissection  ;  since  he,  I 
suppose, 

Has  some  purpose  beyond  the  mere  mis- 
chief he  does. 

But  the  stupid  and  mischievous  boy, 
that  uproots 

The  exotics,  and  tramples  the  tender 
young  shoots, 

For  a  boy's  brutal  pastime,  and  only  be- 
cause 

He  knows  no  distinction  'twixt  hearts- 
ease and  haws,  — 

One  would  wish,  for  the  sake  of  each 
nursling  so  nipped 

To  catch  the  young  rascal  and  have  him 
well  whipped  ! 

ALFRED. 

Some  compatriot  of  mine,  do  I  then  un- 
derstand, 

With  a  cold  Northern  heart,  and  a  rude 
English  hand, 

Has  injured  your  Rosebud  of  France  ? 

STRANGER. 

Sir,  I  know, 
But  little,  or  nothing.     Yet  some  faces 

show 

The  last  act  of  a  tragedy  in  their  regard  : 
Though  the  first  scenes  be  wanting,  it 

yet  is  not  hard 
To  divine,  more  or  less,  what  the  plot 

may  have  been, 
And  what  sort  of  actors  have  passed  o'er 

the  scene. 
And  whenever  I   gaze  on  the  face  of 

Lucile, 

With  its  pensive  and  passionless  lan- 
guor, I  feel 
That  some  feeling  hath  burnt  there  .  .  . 

burnt  out,  and  burnt  up 
Health  and  hope.     So  you  feel  when  you 

gaze  down  the  cup 
Of  extinguished  volcanoes  :   you  judge 

of  the  fire 
Once  there,  by  the  ravage  you  see  ;  — 

the  desire, 
By  the  apathy  left  in  its  wake,  and  that 

sense 
Of  a  moral,  immovable,  mute  impotence. 

ALFRED. 

Humph  !  ...  I  see  you  have  finished,  at 

last,  your  cigar. 
Can  I  offer  another  ? 


20 


LUC1LE. 


STRANGER. 

No,  thank  you.     We  are 
Not  two  miles  from  Serchon. 


ALFRED. 
You  know  the  road  well  ? 

STRANGER. 
I  have  often  been  over  it. 


Here  a  pause  fell 

On  their  converse.     Still  musingly  on, 
side  by  side, 

In  the  moonlight,  the  two  men  contin- 
ued to  ride 

Down  the  dim  mountain  pathway.     But 
each,  for  the  rest 

Of  their  journey,  although  they  still  rode 
on  abreast, 

Continued  to  follow  in  silence  the  train 

Of  the  different  feelings  that,  haunted 
his  brain  ; 

And  each,  as  though  roused  from  a  deep 
revery, 

Almost  shouted,  descending  the  moun- 
tain, to  see 

Burst  at  once  on  the  moonlight  the  sil- 
very Baths, 

The  long  lime-tree  alley,  the  dark  gleam- 
ing paths, 

With  the  lamps  twinkling  through  them 
—  the  quaint  wooden  roofs  — 

The  little  white  houses. 

The  clatter  of  hoofs, 

And  the  music  of  wandering  bands,  up 
the  walls 

Of  the  steep  hanging  hill,  at  remote  in- 
tervals 

Reached  them,  crossed  by  the  sound  of 
the  clacking  of  whips, 

And  here   and  there,   faintly,   through 
serpentine  slips 

Of  verdajit  rose-gardens,  deep-sheltered 
with  screens 

Of  airy  acacias  and  dark  evergreens, 

They  could  mark  the  white  dresses,  and 
catch  the  light  songs, 

Of  the  lovely  Parisians  that  wandered  in 
throngs, 

Led  by  Laughter  and  Love  through  the 
cold  eventide 

Down  the  dream-haunted  valley,  or  up 
the  hillside. 


XVII. 

At  length,  at  the  door  of  the  inn  I'll  it- 

RISSON, 

(Pray  go  there,  if  ever  you  go  to  Ser- 
chon !) 

The  two  horsemen,  well  pleased  to  have 
reached  it,  alighted 

And  exchanged  their  last  greetings. 

The  Frenchman  invited 

Lord  Alfred  to  dinner.    Lord  Alfred  d. 
dined. 

He  had  letters  to  write,  and  felt  tired. 
So  he  dined 

In  his  own  rooms  that  night. 

With  an  unquiet  eye 

He  watched  his  companion  depart ;  nor 
knew  why, 

Beyond  all  accountable  reason  or  meas- 
ure, 

He  felt  in  his  breast  such  a  sovran  dis- 
pleasure. 

"The  fellow's  good-looking,"  he  mur- 
mured at  last, 

"  And  yet  not  a  coxcomb."    Some  ghost 
of  the  past 

Vexed  him  still. 

"If  he  love  her,"  he  thought,  "let 
him  win  her." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  future  —  and  or- 
dered his  dinner. 

XVIII. 

0  hour  of  all  hours,  the  most  blessed 

upon  earth, 
Blessed  hour  of  our  dinners  ! 

The  land  of  his  birth  ; 
The  face  of  his  first  love  ;  the  bills  that 

he  owes ; 
The  twaddle  of  friends  and  the  venom  of 

foes  ; 
The  sermon  he  heard  when  to  church  he 

last  went ; 
The  money  he  borrowed,  the  money  he 

spent ;  — 
All  of  these  things  a  man,  I  believe,  may 

forget, 
And  not  be  the  worse  for  forgetting  ; 

but  yet 
Never,  never,  0  never !  earth's  luckiest 

sinner 
Hath  unpunished  forgotten  the  hour  of 

his  dinner ! 
Indigestion,   that   conscience   of  every 

bad  stompx:h, 
Shall  relentlessly  gnaw  and  pursue  him 

with  some  ache 


LUCILE. 


27 


Or  some  pain  ;  and  trouble,  remorseless, 

his  best  ease, 
As  the  Furies  once  troubled  the  sleep  ol 

Orestes. 


We  may  live  without  poetry,  music,  and 
art ; 

We  may  live  without  conscience,  and 
live  without  heart  ; 

/We  may  live  without  friends  ;  we  may 
live  without  books  ; 

But  civilized  man  cannot  live  without 
cooks. 

He  may  live  without  books,  —  what  is 
knowledge  but  grieving  ? 

He  may  live  without  hope,  —  what  is 
hope  but  deceiving  ? 

He  may  live  without  love,  —  what  is  pas- 
sion but  pining  ? 

But  where  is  the  man  that  can  live  with- 
out dining  ? 

xx. 

Lord  Alfred  found,  waiting  his  coming, 

a  note 
From  Lucile. 

"  Your  last  letter  has  reached  me,"  she 

wrote. 
"This  evening,  alas  !  I  must  go  to  the 

ball, 
And  shall  not  be  at  home  till  too  late 

for  your  call ; 
But  to-morrow,  at  any  rate,  sans  faute, 

at  One, 
You  will  find  me  at  home,  and  will  find 

me  alone. 
Meanwhile,  let  me  thank  you  sincerely, 

milord, 
For  the  honor  with  which  you  adhere  to 

your  word. 

Yes,  I  thank  you,  Lord  Alfred  !  To- 
morrow, then. 

"L." 
xxr. 

I  find  myself  terribly  puzzled  to  tell 
The  feelings  with  which  Alfred  Vargrave 

flung  down 
This  note,  as  he  poured  out  his  wine.     I 

must  own 
That   I   think   he   himself  could  have 

hardly  explained 
Those  feelings  exactly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  as  he  drained 
The  glass  down,  he  muttered,  "Jack's 

right,  after  all. 
The  coquette  ! " 


"Does    milord    mean  to  go  to   the 

ball?" 
Asked  the  waiter,  who  lingered. 

"Perhaps.      I  don't  know. 
You  may  keep  me  a  ticket,  in  case  I 
should  go. " 


0,  better,  no  doubt,  is  a  dinner  of  herbs, 

When  seasoned  by  love,  which  no  rancor 
disturbs, 

And  sweetened  by  all  that  is  sweetest  in 
life, 

Than  turbot,  bisque,  ortolans,  eaten  in 
strife  ! 

But  if,  out  of  humor,  and  hungry,  alone, 

A  man  should  sit  down  to  a  dinner,  each 
one 

Of  the  dishes  of  which  the  cook  chooses 
to  spoil 

With  a  horrible  mixture  of  garlic  and 
oil, 

The  chances  are  ten  against  one,  I  must 
.  own, 

He  gets  up  as  ill-tempered  as  when  he 
sat  down. 

And  if  any  reader  this  fact  to  dispute  is 

Disposed,  I  say. .  .  "Allium  edat  cicutis 

Nocentius  !  " 

Over  the  fruit  and  the  wine 

Undisturbed  the  wasp  settled.   The  even- 
ing was  fine. 

Lord  Alfred  his  chair  by  the  window  had 
set, 

And  languidly  lighted  his  small  cigar- 
ette. 

The  window  was  open.     The  warm  air 
without 

Waved  the  flame  of  the  candles.     The 
moths  were  about. 

[n  the  gloom  he  sat  gloomy. 


Gay  sounds  from  below 
Floated  up  like  faint  echoes  of  joys  long 

ago, 
And  night  deepened  apace  ;  through  the 

dark  avenues 
The   lamps   twinkled   bright ;    and   by 

threes,  and  by  twos, 
The  idlers  of  Serchon  were  strolling  at 

will, 
As  Lord  Alfred  could  see  from  the  cool 

window-sill, 
Where  his  gaze,  as  he  languidly  turned 

it,  fell  o'er 


28 


U'CILK. 


His  lali-  travelling  companion,  now  pass- 
ing lielore 
Tlic  inn,  at  the  window  of  which  lie  still 

sit, 

Iii   full   toilet, — boots   varnished,    and 

Miu\vy  rnivnt, 
( layly  smoothing  ami  buttoning  a  yellow 

kill  glove, 

As  lir  (urm;d  down  the  avenue. 

Wat (;hing  above, 
From    his   window,    the   stranger,    who 

stopped  as  lie  walked 
To    mix   with    those   groups,    and   now 

nodded,  now  talked, 
To  the  young  Paris  dandies,  Lord  Alfred 

discerned, 
By  the  way  hats  were  lifted,  and  glances 

were  turned, 
That  this  unknown  acquaintance,  now 

bound  tor  the  bull, 
Was  a  person  of  rank  or  of  fashion  ;  for 

all 
Whom  lie  bowed  to  in  passing,  or  stopped 

with  and  chattered, 
Walked  on  with  a  look  which  implied 

...  "I  feel  flattered!" 

XXIV. 

His  form  was  soon  lost  in  the  distance 
and  gloom. 


Lord  Alfred  still  sat  by  himself  in  his 

room . 
He  had  finished,  one  after  the  other,  a 

dozen 
Or  more  cigarettes.     He  had  thought  of 

his  cousin  : 
He  had  thought  of  Matilda,  and  thought 

of  Lucile  : 
He  had  thought  about  many  things  : 

thought  a  great  deal 
Of  himself :  of  his  past  life,  his  future, 

his  present : 
He  had  thought  of  the  moon,   neither 

full  moon  nor  crescent  : 
Of  the  gay  world,  so  sad  !  life,  so  sweet 

and  so  sour  ! 

He  had  thought,  too,  of  glory,  and  for- 
tune, and  power: 
Thought  of  love,  and  the  country,  and 

sympathy,  and 

A  poet's  asylum  in  some  distant  land  : 
Thought  of  man  in   the   abstract,    and 

woman,  no  doubt, 


In  particular  ;  also  he  had  thought  much 

about 
His  digestion,  his  debts,  and  his  dinner  ; 

and  last, 
He  thought  that  the  night  would  be 

stupidly  passed, 
If  he  thought  any  more  of  such  matters 

at  all  : 
So  he  rose,  and  resolved  to  set  out  for  the 

ball. 

XXVI. 

I  believe,  ere  he  finished  his  tardy  toilet, 
That  Lord  Alfred  had  spoiled,  and  Hung 

by  in  a  pet, 
Half  a    dozen    white    neckcloths,    and 

looked  for  the  nonce 
Twenty  times  in  the  glass,  if  he  looked 

in  it  orn-e. 
I  believe  that  lie  split  up,    in  drawing 

them  on, 
Three  pair  of  pale  lavender  gloves,  one 

by  one. 
And  this  is  the  reason,  no  doubt,  that 

at  last, 
When  he  reached  the  Casino,  although 

he  walked  fast, 
He  heard,  as  he  hurriedly  entered  the 

door, 
The  church-clock  strike  Twelve. 

XXVII. 

The  last  waltz  was  just  o'er. 

The  chaperons  and  dancers  were  all  in  a 
flatter. 

A  crowd  blocked  the  door  :  and  a  buzz 
and  a  mutter 

Went  about  in  the  room  as  a  young  man, 
whose  face 

Lord  Alfred  had  seen  ere  he  entered  that 
place, 

But  a  few  hours  ago,  through  the  per- 
fumed and  warm 

Flowery  porch,  with  a  lady  that  leaned 
on  his  arm 

Like  a  queen  in  a  fable  of  old  fairy  days, 

Left  the  ballroom. 

XXVIII. 

The  hubbub  of  comment  and  praise 
Reached  Lord  Alfred  as  just  then  he 
entered. 

"Mafai!" 
Said    a    Frenchman   beside   him,  .   .   . 

"That  lucky  Luvois 
Has  obtained  all  the  gifts  of  the  gods 
.  .  .  rank  and  wealth, 


THE 


JUST  O'ER.' 


LTJCILE. 


29 


And  good  looks,  and  then  such  inex- 
haustible health  ! 
He  that  hath  shall  have  more  ;  and  this 

truth,  I  surmise, 

Is  the  cause  why,  to-night,  by  the  beauti- 
ful eyes 
Of  la  charmante  Lucile  more  distinguished 

than  all, 
He  so  gayly  goes  off  with  the  belle  of 

the  ball." 
"Is  it  true,"  asked  a  lady,  aggressively 

fat, 

Who,  fierce  as  a  female  Leviathan,  sat 
By  another  that  looked  like  a  needle,  all 

steel 

And  tenuity,  —  "  Luvois  will  marry  Lu- 
cile ? " 
The  needle  seemed  jerked  by  a  virulent 

twitch, 
As  though  it  were  bent  upon  driving  a 

stitch 
Through  somebody's  character. 

"Madam,"  replied, 
Interposing,  a   young  man  who  sat  by 

their  side, 
And  was  languidly  fanning  his  face  with 

his  hat, 

"  I  am  ready  to  bet  my  new  Tilbury  that, 
If  Luvois  has   proposed,  the  Comtesse 

has  refused." 

The  fat  and  thin  ladies  were  highly  amused. 
"Refused!  .  .  .  what!  a  young  Duke, 

not  thirty,  my  dear, 
With  at  least  half  a  million  (what  is  it  ?) 

a  year ! " 
"That  may  be,"  said  the  third  ;  "yet 

I  know  some  time  since 
Castelmar  was  refused,  though  as  rich, 

and  a  Prince. 
But  Luvois,  who  was  never  before  in  his 

life 
In  love  with  a  woman  who  was  not  a 

wife, 
Is  now  certainly  serious." 


Recommenced. 


XXIX. 

The  music  once  more 

XXX. 

Said  Lord  Alfred,  ' '  This  ball  is  a  bore  !  " 
And  returned  to  the  inn,  somewhat  worse 
than  before. 

xxxr. 

There,  whilst  musing  he  leaned  the  dark 
valley  above, 


Through  the  warm  land  were  wandering 

the  spirits  of  love. 

A  soft  breeze  in  the  white  window  drap- 
ery stirred  ; 
In  the  blossomed  acacia  the  lone  cricket 

chirred  ; 
The  scent  of  the  roses  fell  faint  o'er  the 

night, 
And  the  moon  on  the  mountain  was 

dreaming  in  light. 
Repose,  and  yet  rapture  !   that  pensive 

wild  nature 

Impregnate  with  passion  in  each  breath- 
ing feature  ! 
A  stone's-throw  from  thence,  through  the 

large  lime-trees  peeped, 
In  a  garden  of  roses,   a  white   chalet, 

steeped 
In  the  moonbeams.     The  windows  oped 

down  to  the  lawn  ; 
The  casements  were  open  ;  the  curtains 

were  drawn  ; 
Lights   streamed  from  the  inside ;  and 

with  them  the  sound 
Of  music  and   song.      In  the   garden, 

around 
A  table  with  fruits,  wine,  tea,  ices,  there 

set, 
Half  a   dozen  young  men   and  young 

women  were  met. 
Light,  laughter,  and  voices,  and  music, 

all  streamed 
Through  the  quiet-leaved  limes.     At  the 

window  there  seemed 
For  one  moment  the  outline,   familiar 

and  fair, 
Of  a  white  dress,  a  white  neck,  and  soft 

dusky  hair, 
Which  Lord  Alfred  remembered  ...  a 

moment  or  so 
It  hovered,   then  passed  into  shadow ; 

and  slow 

The  soft  notes,  from  a  tender  piano  up- 
flung, 
Floated  forth,  and  a  voice  unforgotten 

thus  sung : 

"  Hear  a  song  that  was  born  in  the  land 

of  my  birth  ! 
The  anchors  are  lifted,  the  fair  ship 

is  free, 
And  the  shout  of  the  mariners  floats 

in  its  mirth 

'Twixt  the  light  in  the  sky  and  the 
light  on  the  sea. 

"And  this  ship   is  a   world.     She  is 
freighted  with  souls, 


30 


LUCILE. 


She  is  freighted  with  merchandise  : 

Eroiiilly  she  sails 
c   LftDOT  that  stores,  and  the 
Will  tliiit  miii  mis 
The  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk  in 
the 


"  From  the  gardens  of  Pleasure,  where 

reddens  the  rose, 
And  the  scent  of  the  cedar  is  faint 

on  the  air, 
Past  the  harbors  of  Traffic,  sublimely 

she  goes, 

Man's  hopes  o'er  the  world  of  the 
waters  to  bear  ! 

"  Where  the  cheer  from  the  harbors  of 

Traffic  is  heard, 
Where  the  gardens  of  Pleasure  fade 

fast  on  the  sight, 
O'er  the  rose,   o'er  the  cedar,   there 

passes  a  bird  ; 

'T  is  the  Paradise  Bird,  never  known 
to  alight. 

"And  that  bird,  bright  and  bold  as  a 

Poet's  desire, 
Roams  her  own  native  heavens,  the 

realms  of  her  birth. 
There   she   soars  like  a  seraph,   she 

shines  like  a  fire, 

And  her  plumage  hath  never  been 
sullied  by  earth. 

"  And  the  mariners  greet  her  ;  there  's 

song  on  each  lip, 
For  that  bird  of  good  omen,  and  joy 

in  each  eye. 
And  the  ship  and  the  bird,  and  the 

bird  and  the  ship, 

Together  go  forth  over  ocean  and 
sky. 

"  Fast,  fast  fades  the  land  !  far  the  rose- 

gardens  flee, 
And  far  fleet  the  harbors.     In  re- 

gions unknown 

The  ship  is  alone  on  a  desert  of  sea, 
And  the  bird  in  a  desert  of  sky  is 
alone. 

"  In  those  regions  unknown,  o'er  that 

desert  of  air, 
Down  that  desert  of  waters  —  tre- 

mendous in  wrath  — 
The  storm-wind  Euroclydon  leaps  from 

his  lair, 

And  cleaves,  through  the  waves  of 
the  ocean,  his  path. 


"And  the  bird  in  the  cloud,  ami  Un- 
ship on  tin-  wave, 
Overtaken,  are  beaten  about  by  wild 

gales  : 
And  tin-  mariners  all  rush  their  cargo 

In  save, 

Of  the  gold  in  the  ingots,  the  silk 
ill  the  bale.-,. 

"Lo!   a   wonder,    which    never   before 

hath  been  heard, 
For  it  never  before  hath  been  given 

to  sight ; 

On  the  ship  hath  descended  the  Para- 
dise Bird, 

The  Paradise  Bird,  never  known  to 
alight ! 

"The  bird  which  the  mariners  blessed, 

when  each  lip 

Had  a  song  for  the  omen  that  glad- 
dened each  eye  ; 
The  bright  bird  for  shelter  hath  flown 

to  the  ship 

From  the  wrath  on  the  sea  and  the 
wrath  in  the  sky. 

"  But  the  mariners  heed  not  the  bird 

any  more. 
They  are  felling  the  masts,  —  they 

are  cutting  the  sails  ; 
Some  are  working,  some  weeping,  and 

some  wrangling  o'er 
Their  gold  in  the  ingots,  their  silk 
in  the  bales. 

"  Souls  of  men  are  on  board  ;  wealth  of 

man  in  the  hold  ; 
And   the    storm-wind    Euroclydon 

sweeps  to  his  prey  ; 
And  who  heeds  the  bird  ?     '  Save  the 

silk  and  the  gold  ! ' 
And  the  bird  from  her  .shelter  the 
gust  sweeps  away  ! 

"  Poor  Paradise  Bird  !  on  her  lone  flight 

once  more 
Back  again  in  the  wake  of  the  wind 

she  is  driven,  — 
To  be  'whelmed  in  the  storm,  or  above 

it  to  soar, 

And,  if  rescued  from  ocean,  to  van- 
ish in  heaven  ! 

"And  the  ship  rides  the  waters,  and 

weathers  the  gales  : 
From  the  haven  she  nears  the  re- 
joicing is  heard. 


LUCILE. 


31 


All  hands  are  at  work  on  the  ingots, 

the  bales, 

Save  a  child,   sitting  lonely,   who 
misses  —  the  Bird  !  " 


CANTO  III. 


WITH  stout  iron  shoes  be  my  Pegasus 

shod  ! 

For  my  road  is  a  rough  one  :  flint,  stub- 
ble, and  clod, 
Blue  clay,  and  black  quagmire,  brambles 

no  few, 
And  I  gallop  up-hill,  now. 

There 's  terror  that 's  time 
In  that  tale  of  a  youth  who,  one  night 

at  a  revel, 
Amidst  music  and  mirth  lured  and  wiled 

by  some  devil, 
Followed  ever  one  mask  through  the  mad 

masquerade, 
Till,  pursued  to  some  chamber  deserted 

('t  is  said), 
He  unmasked,  with  a  kiss,  the  strange 

lady,  and  stood 
Face  to  face  with  a  Thing  not  of  flesh  nor 

of  blood. 
In  this  Masque  of  the  Passions,  called 

Life,  there 's  no  human 
Emotion,  though  masked,  or  in  man  or 

in  woman, 
But,  when  faced  and  unmasked,  it  will 

leave  us  at  last 
Struck    by    some    supernatural    aspect 

aghast. 

For  truth  is  appalling  and  eldrich,  as  seen 
By  this  world's  artificial  lamplights,  and 

we  screen 
From  our  sight  the  strange  vision  that 

troubles  our  life. 

Alas  !  why  is  Genius  forever  at  strife 
With    the    world,    which,    despite   the 

world's  self,  it  ennobles  ? 
Why  is   it  that  Genius  perplexes  and 

troubles 
And  offends  the  effete  life  it  comes  to 

renew  ? 

'T  is  the  terror  of  truth  !  't  is  that  Gen- 
ius is  true  ! 

II. 

Lucile  de  Nevers  (if  her  riddle  I  read) 
Was  a  woman  of  genius  :  whose  genius, 
indeed, 


With  her  life  was  at  war.     Once,  but 

once,  in  that  life 
The  chance  had  been  hers  to  escape  from 

this  strife 
In  herself ;  finding  peace  in  the  life  of 

another 
From  the  passionate  wants  she,  in  hers, 

failed  to  smother. 
But  the  chance  fell  too  soon,  when  the 

crude  restless  power 
Which  had  been  to  her  nature  so  fatal  a 

dower, 
Only  wearied  the  man  it  yet  haunted 

and  tfrralled ; 
And  that  moment,  once  lost,  had  been 

never  recalled. 
Yet  it  left  her  heart  sore  :  and,  to  shelter 

her  heart 
From  approach,  she  then  sought,  in  that 

delicate  art 
Of  concealment,  those  thousand  adroit 

strategies 
Of  feminine  wit,  which  repel  while  they 

please, 

A  weapon,  at  once,  and  a  shield,  to  con- 
ceal 
And  defend  all  that  women  can  earnestly 

feel. 
Thus,  striving  her  instincts  to  hide  and 

repress, 
She  felt  frightened  at  times  by  her  very 

success : 
She  pined  for  the  hill-tops,  the  clouds, 

and  the  stars : 
Golden  wires  may  annoy  us  as  much  as 

steel  bars 
If  they  keep  us  behind  prison-windows  : 

impassioned 
Her  heart  rose  and  burst  the  light  cage 

she  had  fashioned 
Out  of  glittering  trifles  around  it. 

Unknown 
To  herself,    all  her  instincts,   without 

hesitation, 

Embraced  the  idea  of  self-immolation. 
The  strong  spirit  in  her,  had  her  life 

but  been  blended 
With  some  man's  whose  heart  had  her 

own  comprehended, 
All  its  wealth  at  his  feet  would  have 

lavishly  thrown. 
For  him  she  had  struggled  and  striven 

alone  ; 

For  him  had  aspired  ;  in  him  had  trans- 
fused 
All  the  gladness  and  grace  of  her  nature  • 

and  used 


32 


LUCILK 


For  him  only  the  spells  of  its  delicate 

power  : 
Like   tne  ministering  fairy  that  brings 

from  IHT  limver 
To  some  inage  all  the  treasures,  whose 

use  tin-  t'olitl  clt', 

More  enriched  by  her  love,  disregards 

for  herself. 

Hut  standing  apart,  as  she  ever  had  done, 
And  her  genius,  which  needed  a  vent, 

finding  none 
In  the  broad  fields  of  action  thrown  wide 

to  man's  power, 
She  unconsciously  made  it  .her  bulwark 

and  tower, 
And  built  in  it  her  refuge,  whence  lightly 

she  hurled 
Her  contempt  at  the  fashions  and  forms 

of  the  world. 

And  the  permanent  cause  why  she  now 
missed  and  failed 

That  firm  hold  upon  life  she  so  keenly 
assailed, 

"Was,  in  all  those  diurnal  occasions  that 
place 

Say  —  the  world  and  the  woman  opposed 
face  to  face, 

Where  the  woman  must  yield,  she,  re- 
fusing to  stir, 

Offended  the  world,  which  in  turn 
wounded  her. 

As  before,  in  the  old-fashioned  manner, 

I  fit 

To  this  character,  also,  its  moral :  to  wit, 
Say  —  the  world  is  a  nettle  ;  disturb  it, 

it  stings  : 
Grasp  it  firmly,  it  stings  not.     On  one 

of  two  things, 
If  you  would  not  be  stung,  it  behooves 

you  to  settle  : 
Avoid  it,  or  crush  it.     She  crushed  not 

the  nettle  ; 
For  she  could  not ;  nor  would  she  avoid 

it :  she  tried 
With  the  weak  hand  of  woman  to  thrust 

it  aside, 
And  it   stung  her.     A   woman   is   too 

slight  a  thing 
To  trample  the  world  without  feeling  its 

sting. 

in. 
One  lodges  but  simply  at  Serchon  ;  yet, 

thanks 
To  the  season  that  changes  forever  the 

banks 


Of  the  blossoming  mountains,  and  shifts 

the  li^l't  i-loiid 
O'er  the  valley,  and  hushes  or  rouses  the 

loud 
Wind  that  wails  in  the  pines,  or  • 

murmuring  down 

The  dark  evergreen  slopes  to  the  slum- 
bering town, 
And  the  torrent  that  falls,  faintly  heard 

from  afar, 

And  the  bluebells  that  purple  the  dap- 
ple-gray scaur, 
One  sees  with  each  month  of  the  many- 

fared  year 
A  thousand   sweet  changes  of   beauty 

appear. 
The  chalet  where  dwelt  the  Comtesse  de 

Nevers 
Rested  half  up  the  base  of  a  mountain 

of  firs, 

In  a  garden  of  roses,  revealed  to  the  road, 
Yet  withdrawn  from  its  noise :  't  was  a 

peaceful  abode. 
And  the  walls,  and  the  roofs,  with  their 

gables  like  hoods 
Which  the  monks  wear,  were  built  of 

sweet  resinous  woods. 
The  sunlight  of  noon,   as  Lord  Alfred 

ascended 
The  steep  garden  paths,  every  odor  had 

blended 

Of  the  ardent  carnations,  and  faint  helio- 
tropes, 
With  the  balms  floated  down  from  the 

dark  wooded  slopes  : 
A  light  breeze  at  the  windows  was  playing 

about, 
And  the  white  curtains  floated,  now  in 

and  now  out. 
The  house  was  all  hushed  when  he  rang 

at  the  door, 
Which  was  opened  to  him  in  a  moment, 

or  more, 
By  an  old  nodding  negress,  whose  sable 

head  shined 
In  the  sun  like  a  cocoa-nut  polished  in 

Ind, 
'Neath  the  snowy  foulard  which  about 

it  was  wound. 

IV. 

Lord  Alfred  sprang  forward  at  once,  with 

a  bound. 
He  remembered    the  nurse  of  Lucile. 

The  old  dame, 
Whose  teeth  and  whose  eyes  used  to 

beam  when  he  came, 


LUCILE. 


33 


With  a  boy's  eager  step,  in  the  blithe 

days  of  yore, 

To  pass,  unannounced,  her  young  mis- 
tress's door. 
The  old  woman  had  fondled  Lucile  on 

her  knee 
When  she  left,  as  an  infant,  far  over  the 

sea, 

In  India,  the  tomb  of  a  mother,   un- 
known, 
To  pine,  a  pale  floweret,  in  great  Paris 

town. 
She  had  soothed  the  child's  sobs  on  her 

breast,  when  she  read 
The  letter  that  told  her  her  father  was 

dead. 
An  astute,  shrewd  adventurer,  who,  like 

Ulysses, 
Had  studied  men,  cities,  laws,  wars,  the 

abysses 
Of  statecraft,  with  varying  fortunes,  was 

he. 
He  had  wandered  the  world  through,  by 

land  and  by  sea, 
And  knew   it  in  most  of   its  phases. 

Strong  will, 
Subtle  tact,  and  soft  manners,  had  given 

him  skill 
To  conciliate  Fortune,   and  courage  to 

brave 
Her  displeasure.     Thrice  shipwrecked, 

and  cast  by  the  wave 
On  his  own  quick  resources,  they  rarely 

had  failed 
His   command  :   often  baffled,   he  ever 

prevailed, 
In  his  combat  with  fate  :  to-day  flattered 

and  fed 
By  monarcfce,   to-morrow  in  search  of 

mere  bread. 
The  oifspring  of  times  trouble-haunted, 

he  came 

Of  a  family  ruined,  yet  noble  in  name. 
He  lost  sight  of  his  fortune,  at  twenty, 

in  France  ; 
And,  half  statesman,  half  soldier,  and 

wholly  Free-lance, 
Had  wandered  in  search  of  it,  over  the 

world, 
Into  India. 

But  scarce  had  the  nomad  unfurled 
His  wandering  tent  at  Mysore,   in  the 

smile 
Of  a  Rajah  (whose  court  he  controlled 

for  a  while, 
And  whose   council  he   prompted  and 

governed  by  stealth); 
3 


Scarce,  indeed,  had  he  wedded  an  Indian 

of  wealth, 
Who  died  giving  birth  to  this  daughter, 

before 
He  was  borne  to  the  tomb  of  his  wife  at 

Mysore. 
His  fortune,  which  fell  to  his  orphan, 

perchance, 
Had  secured  her  a  home  with  his  sister 

in  France, 
A  lone  woman,  the  last  of  the  race  left. 

Lucile 
Neither  felt,  nor  affected,  the  wish  to 

conceal 
The  half- Eastern  blood,  which  appeared 

to  bequeath 
(Revealed  now  and  then,  though  but 

rarely,  beneath 
That  outward  repose  that  concealed  it 

in  her) 
A  something  half  wild  to  her  strange 

character. 
The    nurse    with    the    orphan,    awhile 

broken-hearted, 
At  the  door  of  a  convent  in  Paris  had 

parted. 
But  later,  once  more,  with  her  mistress 

she  tarried, 
When  the  girl,  by   that  grim  maiden 

aunt,  had  been  married 
To  a  dreary  old  Count,  who  had  sullenly 

died, 
With  no  claim  on  her  tears,  —  she  had 

wept  as  a  bride. 

Said  Lord  Alfred,   "Your  mistress  ex- 
pects me." 

The  crone 
Oped  the  drawing-room  door,  and  there 

left  him  alone. 


O'er  the  soft  atmosphere  of  this  temple 

of  grace 
Rested  silence  and  perfume.     N"o  sound 

reached  the  place. 
In  the  white  curtains  wavered  the  delicate 

shade 
Of  the  heaving  acacias,  through  which 

the  breeze  played. 
O'er  the  smooth  wooden  floor,  polished 

dark  as  a  glass, 
Fragrant  white  Indian  matting  allowed 

you  to  pass. 
In  light  olive  baskets,  by  window  and 

door, 

Some  hung  from  the  ceiling,  some  crowd- 
ing the  floor, 


34 


LUCILE. 


Rich    wild-flowers    plucked    by    Lneile 

from  the  hill, 
Seemed  the  room  with  their  passionate 

presence  to  till  : 

Mine  aconite,  hid  in  white  roses,  reposed  ; 
The  deep  belladonna  itsvenneil  disclosed  ; 
And  the  frail  saponairc,  and  the  tender 

bluebell, 
And    the  purple,  valerian,  —  eacli  child 

of  the  fell 
And   the   solitude    flourished,    fed  fair 

from  the  source 
<  )f  waters  the  huntsman  scarce  heeds  in 

his  course, 

Where  the  chamois  and  izard,  with  deli- 
cate hoof, 
Pause  or  flit  through  the  pinnacled  silence 

aloof. 

VI. 

Here  you  felt,  by  the  sense  of  its  beauty 

reposed, 
That  you   stood  in   a  shrine  of  sweet 

thoughts.     Half  unclosed 
In  the  light  slept  the  flowers  :  all  was 

pure  and  at  rest ; 

All  peaceful ;  all  modest ;  all  seemed  self- 
possessed, 
And  aware  of  the  silence.     No  vestige 

nor  trace 
Of  a  young  woman's  coquetry  troubled 

the  place. 
He  stood    by  the  window.      A  cloud 

passed  the  sun. 
A  light  breeze  uplifted  the  leaves,  one 

by  one. 
Just  then  Lucile  entered  the  room,  un- 

discerned 

By  Lord  Alfred,  whose  face  to  the  win- 
dow was  turned, 
In  a  strange  re  very. 

The  time  was,  when  Lucile, 
In  beholding  that  man,  could  not  help 

but  reveal 
The  rapture,  the  fear,  which  wrenched 

out  every  nerve 
In  the  heart  of  the  girl  from  the  woman's 

reserve. 
And  now  —  she   gazed  at  him,    calm, 

smiling,  —  perchance 
Indifferent, 

VII. 

Indifferently  turning  his  glance, 
Alfred  Vargrave   encountered  that  gaze 

unaware. 
O'er  a  bodice  snow-white  streamed  her 

soft  dusky  hair ; 


A  rose-bud  half  blown  in  her  hand  ;  in 
her  ' 

A  half-pensive  smile. 

A  sharp  cry  of  surprise 

Escaped  from  his  lips:    some  unknown 
agitation, 

An  invincible  trouble,  a  strange  palpita- 
tion, 

Confused  his  ingenious  and  frivolous  wit ; 

Overtook,  and  entangled,  and  pamlv/cd 
it. 

That  wit  so  complacent  and  docile,  that 
ever 

Lightly  came  at  the  call  of  the  lightest 
endeavor, 

Ready  coined,  and  availably  current  as 
gold, 

Which,  secure  of  its  value,  so  fluently 
rolled 

In  free  circulation  from  hand  on  to  hand 

For  the  usage  of  all,  at  a  moment's  com- 
mand ; 

For  once  it  rebelled,  it  was  mute  and 
unstirred, 

And  he  looked  at  Lucile  without  speak- 
ing a  word. 

VIII. 

Perhaps  what  so  troubled  him  was,  that 

the  face 
On  whose  features  he  gazed  had  no  more 

than  a  trace 
Of  the  face  his  remembrance  had  imaged 

for  years. 
Yes  !  the  face  he  remembered  was  faded 

with  tears  : 
Grief  had  famished  the  figure,  and  dimmed 

the  dark  < 
And  starved  the  pale  lips,  to^acquainted 

with  sighs. 
And  that  tender,  and  gracious,  and  fond 

coqudterie 
Of  a  woman  who  knows  her  least  ribbon 

to  be    . 
Something  dear  to  the  lips  that  so  warmly 

caress 
Every  sacred   detail    of   her    exquisite 

dress, 
In  the  careless  toilet  of  Lucile,  —  then 

too  sad 
To  care  aught  to  her  changeable  beauty 

to  add,  — 

Lord  Alfred  had  never  admired  before  ! 
Alas!  poor  Lucile,  in  those  weak  days 

of  yore, 
Had  neglected  herself,  never  heeding, 

nor  thinking 


LUCILE. 


35 


(While  the  blossom  and   bloom  of  her 

beauty  were  shrinking) 
That  sorrow  can  beautify  only  the  heart — 
Not  the   face  —  of  a  woman  ;  and  can 

but  impart 
Its  endearment  to  one  that  has  suffered. 

In  truth 
Grief  hath  beauty  for  grief;  but  gay 

youth  loves  gay  youth. 


IX. 

The  woman  that  now  met,  unshrinking, 
his  gaze, 

Seemed  to  bask  in  the  silent  but  sumptu- 
ous haze 

Of  that  soft  second  summer,  more  ripe 
than  the  first, 

Which  returns  when  the  bud  to  the, 
blossom  hath  burst 


36 


LUCILE. 


In  despite  of  the  stormiest  April.    Lucile 
Had  nei|iiired  that  matchless  unconscious 

•oped 
To  the  In  linage  \\liicli  none  but  a  churl 

would  withhold  — 
That,   carexsiu^   ami   exquisite    grace  — 

never  hold, 
Kver  present  -    \vhirh  just  a  few  women 

pos> 
From  a  healthful  repose,  undisturbed  by 

the  s: 
Of  unquiet  emotions,  her  soft  cheek  had 

drawn 
A    freshness  as  pure  as  the  twilight  of 

dawn. 
Her  figure,  though  slight,  had  revived 

everywhere 
The  luxurious  proportions  of  youth  ;  and 

her  hair  — 
Once  shut  11  a>  an  offering  to  passionate 

love  — 

Now  floated  or  rested  redundant  above 
Her    airy   pure    forehead    and   throat; 

gathered  loose 
I'nder  which,   by  one  violet  knot,  the 

profuse 

Milk-white  folds  of  a  cool  modest  gar- 
ment reposed, 
Itippled   faint    by  the  breast   they  half 

hid,  half  disclosed, 
And  her  .-imple  attire  thus  in  all  things 

revealed 
The  fine  ait  which  so  artfully  all  things 

concealed. 


Lord  Alfred,  who  never  conceived  that 
Lucile 

C'ould  have  looked  so  enchanting,  felt 
tempted  to  kneel 

At  her  feet,  and  her  pardon  with  passion 
implore  ; 

lint  the  calm  smile  that  met  him  sufficed 
to  restore 

The  pride  and  the  bitterness  needed  to 
meet 

The  occasion  with  dignity  due  and  dis- 
creet. 

XI. 

"  Madam,"  —  thus  he  began  with  a  voice 

reassured,  — 
"  You  see  that  your  latest  command  has 

secured 
My  immediate  obedience,  —  presuming  I 

may 
Consider  my  freedom  restored  from  this 

day. "  — * 


"I  had  thought,"  said  Lucile,  with  a 
smile  gay  yet  sad, 

"  That  your  freedom  from  me  not  a  fetter 
has  had. 

Indeed  !  ...  in  my  chains  have  you 
rested  till  now  '/ 

I  had  not  so  flattered  myself,  I  avow  !  " 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Madam,"  Lord 
Alfred  replied, 

"  Do  not  jest  !  has  the  moment  no  sad- 
ness ? "  he  sighed. 

"'Tis  an  ancient  tradition,"  she  an- 
swered, "a  tale 

Often  told,  —  a  position  too  sure  to  pre- 
vail 

In  the  end  of  all  legends  of  love.  If  we 
wrote, 

When  we  first  love,  foreseeing  that  hour 
yet  remote, 

Wherein  of  necessity  each  would  recall 

From  the  other  the  poor  foolish  records 
of  all 

Those  emotions,  whose  pain,  when  re- 
corded, seemed  bliss, 

Should  we  write  as  we  wrote  ?  But  one 
thinks  not  of  this  ! 

At  Twenty  (who  does  not  at  Twenty  ?) 
we  write 

Believing  eternal  the  frail  vows  we 
plight ; 

And  we  smile  with  a  confident  pity, 
above 

The  vulgar  results  of  all  poor  human 
love  : 

For  we  deem,  with  that  vanity  common 
to  youth, 

Because  what  we  feel  in  our  bosoms,  in 
truth, 

Is  novel  to  us  —  that 't  is  novel  to  earth, 

And  will  prove  the  exception,  in  durance 
and  worth, 

To  the  great  law  to  which  all  on  earth 
must  incline. 

The  error  was  noble,  the  vanity  fine  ! 

Shall  we  blame  it  because  we  survive  it  ? 
ah,  no  ; 

'T  was  the  youth  of  our  youth,  my  lord, 
is  it  not  so  ? " 


XII. 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute.  He  remembered 
her  yet 

A  child,  —  the  weak  sport  of  each  mo- 
ment's regret, 

Blindly  yielding  herself  to  the  errors  of 
life, 


LUCILE. 


37 


The  deceptions  of  youth,  and  borne  down 
by  the  strife 

And  the  tumult  of  passion  ;  the  tremu- 
lous toy 

Of  each  transient  emotion  of  grief  or  of 

joy- 
But  to  watch  her  pronounce  the  death- 
warrant  of  all 
The  illusions  of  life,  —  lift,  unflinching, 

the  pall 
From  the  bier  of  the  dead  Past,  —  that 

woman  so  fair, 
And  so  young,  yet  her  own  self-survivor ; 

who  there 
Traced  her  life's  epitaph  with  a  finger  so 

cold! 
'T  was  a  picture  that  pained  his  self-love 

to  behold. 
He  himself  knew  —  none  better  —  the 

things  to  be  said 
Upon  subjects  like  this.     Yet  he  bowed 

down  his  head  : 
And   as  thus,  with  a  trouble  he  could 

not  command, 
He  paused,  crumpling  the  letters  he  held 

in  his  hand, 
"  You  know  me  enough,"  she  continued, 

' '  or  what 
I  would  say  is,  you  yet  recollect  (do  you 

not, 
Lord  Alfred  ?)  enough  of  my  nature,  to 

know 
That  these  pledges  of  what  was  perhaps 

long  ago 

A  foolish  affection,  I  do  not  recall 
From  those  motives  of  prudence  which 

actuate  all 
Or  most  women  when  their  love  ceases. 

Indeed, 
If  you  have  such  a  doubt,  to  dispel  it  I 

need 
But  remind  you  that   ten   years  these 

letters  have  rested 

Unreclaimed   in   your   hands."      A   re- 
proach seemed  suggested 
By  these  words.     To  meet  it,  Lord  Al- 
fred looked  up. 
(His  gaze  had  been  fixed  on  a  blue  Sevres 

cup 
With  a  look  of  profound  connoisseurship, 

—  a  smile 
Of  singular  interest  and  care,  all  this 

while.) 
He  looked  up,  and  looked  long  in  the 

face  of  Lucile, 
To  mark  if  that  face  by  a  sign  would 

reveal 


At  the  thought  of  Miss  Darcy  the  least 
jealous  pain. 

He  looked  keenly  and  long,  yet  he 
looked  there  in  vain. 

"You  are  generous,  Madam,"  he  mur- 
mured at  last, 

And  into  his  voice  a  light  irony  passed. 

He  had  looked  for  reproaches,  and  fully 
arranged 

His  forces.  But  straightway  the  enemy 
changed 

The  position. 

XIII. 

"  Come  !  "  gayly  Lucile  interposed, 

With  a  smile  whose  divinely  deep  sweet- 
ness disclosed 

Some  depth  in  her  nature  he  never  had 
known, 

While  she  tenderly  laid  her  light  hand 
on  his  own, 

"Do  not  think  I  abuse  the  occasion. 
We  gain 

Justice,  judgment,  with  years,  or  else 
years  are  in  vain. 

From  me  not  a  single  reproach  can  you 
hear. 

I  have  sinned  to  myself,  —  to  the  world, 
—  nay,  I  fear 

To  you  chiefly.  The  woman  who  loves 
should,  indeed, 

Be  the  friend  of  the  man  that  she  loves. 
She  should  heed 

Not  her  selfish  and  often  mistaken  de- 
sires, 

But  his  interest  whose  fate  her  own  in- 
terest inspires  ; 

And,  rather  than  seek  to  allure,  for  her 
sake, 

His  life  down  the  turbulent,  fanciful 
wake 

Of  impossible  destinies,  use  all  her  art 

That  his  place  in  the  world  find  its  place 
in  her  heart. 

I,  alas  !  —  I  perceived  not  this  truth  till 
too  late  ; 

I  tormented  your  youth,  I  have  darkened 
your  fate. 

Forgive  me  the  ill  I  have  done  for  the 
sake 

Of  its  long  expiation  ! " 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  awake, 
Seemed  to  wander  from   dream   on  to 

dream.     In  that  seat 
Where   he  sat  as  a  criminal,  ready  to 

meet 


38 


LUCILE. 


His  accuser,  he  found  himself  turned  by 
sumo  change, 

As  surprising  and  all  unexpected  as 
strange, 

To  the  judge  from  whose  mercy  indul- 
gence was  sought. 

All  the  world's  foolish  pride  in  that  mo- 
ment was  naught ; 

He  felt  nil  his  plausible  theories  posed  ; 

And,  thrilled  by  the  beauty  of  nature 
disclosed 

In  the  pathos  of  all  he  had  witnessed, 

his  head 

He  bowed,  and  faint  words  self-reproach- 
fully  said, 

As  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips.  'T  was 
a  hand 

White,  delicate,  dimpled,  warm,  lan- 
guid, and  bland. 

The  hand  of  a  woman  is  often,  in  youth, 

Somewhat  rough,  somewhat  red,  some- 
what graceless,  in  truth  ; 

Does  its  beauty  refine,  as  its  pulses  grow 
calm, 

Or  as  Sorrow  has  crossed  the  life-line  in 
the  palm  ? 

xv. 

The  more  that  he  looked,  that  he  listened, 
the  more 

He  discovered  perfections  unnoticed  be- 
fore. 

Less  salient  than  once,  less  poetic,  per- 
chance, 

This  woman  who  thus  had  survived  the 
romance 

That  had  made  him  its  hero,  and  breathed 
him  its  sighs, 

Seemed  more  charming  a  thousand  times 
o'er  to  his  eyes. 

Together  they  talked  of  the  years  since 
when  last 

They  parted,  contrasting  the  present,  the 
past. 

Yet  no  memory  marred  their  light  con- 
verse. Lucile 

Questioned  much,  with  the  interest  a 
sister  might  feel, 

Of  Lord  Alfred's  new  life,  —  of  Miss 
Darcy,  —  her  face, 

Her  temper,  accomplishments,  —  pausing 
to  trace 

The  advantage  deri  ved  from  a  hymen  so  fit. 

Of  herself,  she  recounted  with  humor 
and  wit 

Her  journeys,  her  daily  employments, 
th«  lands 


She   had   seen,   nnd   the  books  she  had 

read,  and  the  hands 
She  had  shaken. 

In  all  that  she  said  there  appeared 
An  amiable  irony.  Laughing,  she  reared 
The  temple  of  reason,  with  ever  a  touch 
Of  light  scorn  at  her  work,  revealed  only 

so  much 
As   there   gleams,   in  the  thyrsus  that 

Kacelianals  bear. 
Through  the  blooms  of  a  garland  the 

point  of  a  spear. 
But  above,  and  beneath,  and  beyond  all 

of  this, 

To  that  soul,  whose  experience  had  par- 
alyzed bliss, 
A  benignant  indulgence,  to  all  things 

resigned, 
A  justice,   a  sweetness,   a  meekit' 

mind, 
Gave  a  luminous  beauty,  as  tender  and 

faint 
And  serene  as  the  halo  encircling  a  saint. 


Unobserved  by  Lord   Alfred   the   time 

fleeted  by. 

To  each  novel  sensation  spontaneously 

He  abandoned  himself  with  that  ardor 
so  strange 

"Which  belongs  to  a  mind  grown  accus- 
tomed to  change. 

He  sought,  with  well-practised  and  deli- 
cate art, 

To  surprise  from  Lucile  the  true  state 
of  her  heart ; 

But  his  efforts  were  vain,  and  the  woman, 
as  ever, 

More  adroit  than  the  man,  baffled  every 
endeavor. 

When  he  deemed  he  had  touched  on 
some  chord  in  her  Iwing, 

At  the  touch  it  dissolved,  and  was  gone. 
I'.ver  fleeing 

As  ever  he  near  it  advanced,  when  he 
thought 

To  have  seized,  and  proceeded  to  ana- 
ly/e  aught 

Of  the  moral  existence,  the  absolute  soul, 

Light  as  vapor  the  phantom  escaped  his 
control. 


From  the  hall,   on  a  sudden,  a  sharp 

ring  was  heard. 
In  the  passage  without  a  quick  footstep 

there  stirred. 


LUCILE. 


39 


At  tlife  door  knocked  the  negress,  and 
thrust  in  her  head, 

"  The  Duke  do  Luvois  had  just  entered," 
she  said, 

"  And  insisted  "  — 

"The   Duke!"  cried   Lucile  (as  she 
spoke 

The  Duke's  step,  approaching,  a  light 
echo  woke). 

"  Say  I  do  not  receive  till  the  evening. 
Explain," 

As    she    glanced   at   Lord  Alfred,    she 
added  again, 

"  1  have  business  of  private  importance." 
There  came 

O'er  Lord  Alfred  at  once,  at  the  sound 
of  that  name, 

An  invincible   sense   of  vexation.     He 
turned 

To  Lucile,  and  he  fancied  he  faintly  dis- 
cerned 

On  her  face  an  indefinite  look  of  confu- 
sion. 

On  his  mind  instantaneously  flashed  the 
conclusion, 

That  his  presence  had  caused  it. 

He  said,  with  a  sneer 

Which  he  could  not  repress,  ' '  Let  not 
me  interfere 

With  the  claims  on  your  time,  lady  ! 
when  you  are  free 

From  more  pleasant  engagements,  allow 
me  to  see 

And  to  wait  on  you  later." 

The  words  were  not  said 

Ere  he  wished  to  recall  them.     He  bit- 
terly read 

The  mistake  he  had  made  in  Lucile's 
flashing  eye. 

Inclining  her  head,  as  in  haughty  reply, 

More    reproachful    perchance   than    all 
uttered  rebuke, 

She   said   merely,    resuming    her   seat, 
"Tell  the  Duke 

He  may  enter." 

And  vexed  with  his   own  words  and 
hers, 

Alfred  Vargrave  bowed  low  to  Lucile  de 
Nevers, 

Passed  the  casement  and  entered  the  gar- 
den.    Before 

Plis  shadow  was  fled  the  Duke  stood  at 
the  door. 

xvm. 

When  left  to  his  thoughts  in  the  garden 
alone, 


Alfred  Vargrave  stood,  strange  to  him- 
self.    With  dull  tone 
Of  importance,  through  cities  of  rose  and 

carnation, 

Went  the  bee  on  his  business  from  sta- 
tion to  station. 
The  minute  mirth  of  summer  was  shrill 

all  around  ; 
Its   incessant   small   voices   like   stings 

seemed  to  sound 
On   his   sore   angry   sense.      He   stood 

grieving  the  hot 
Solid  sun  with  his  shadow,  nor  stirred 

from  the  spot. 
The  last  look  of  Lucile  still  bewildered, 

perplexed, 
And  reproached  him.     The  Duke's  visit 

goaded  and  vexed. 

He  had  not  yet  given  the  letters.     Again 
He  must  visit  Lucile.     He  resolved  to 

remain 
Where  he  was  till  the  Duke  went.     In 

short,  he  would  stay, 
Were  it  only  to  know  when  the  Duke 

went  away. 
But  just  as  he  formed  this  resolve,  he 

perceived 
Approaching  towards  him,  between  the 

thick-leaved 
And  luxuriant  laurels,  Lu«ile  and  the 

Duke. 
Thus  surprised,  his  first  thought  was  to 

seek  for  some  nook 
Whence  he  might,  unobserved,  from  the 

garden  retreat. 
They  had  not  yet  seen  him.     The  sound 

of  their  feet 
And  their  voices  had  warned  him  in 

time.     They  were  walking 
Towards  him.    The  Duke  (a  true  French- 
man) was  talking 
With  the  action  of  Talma.     He  saw  at 

a  glance 
That  they  barred  the  sole  path  to  the 

gateway.     No  chance 
Of  escape  save  in  instant  concealment ! 

Deep-dipped 
In  thick  foliage,  an  arbor  stood  near. 

In  he  slipped, 

Saved  from  sight,  as  in  front  of  that  am- 
bush they  passed, 
Still  conversing.     Beneath  a  laburnum 

at  last 
They  paused,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 

in  the  shade, 
So  close  that  he  could  not  but  hear  what 

they  said. 


40 


LUCILE. 


LUCILE. 
I  Mike,  I  scarcely  conceive  .  .  . 

Luvdis. 

Ah,  forgive  !  .  .  .  I  desired 
So  deeply  to  see  you  to-day.    You  retired 
So   .'ally   last   night    from    the   luill  .  .  . 
this  whole  week 

I  have  seen  you  pah-,  silent,  preoccupied 

.  .  .  speak, 
Speak,   Lucile,  and  forgive  me  !  ...    I 

know  that  I  am 
A  rash  fool  —  but  I  love  you  !  I  love 

you,  Madame, 
More  than  language  can  say  !     Do  not 

deem,  0  Lueile, 
That  the  love  I  no  longer  have  strength 

to  conceal 
Is  a  passing  caprice  !     It  is  strange  to 

my  nature, 
It  has  made  me,  unknown  to  myself,  a 

new  creature. 
I  implore  you  to  sanction  and  save  the 

new  life 
Which    I   lay  at   your  feet   with   this 

prayer  —  Be  my  wife  ; 
Stoop,  and  raise  me  ! 

Lord  Alfred  could  scarcely  restrain 
The  sudden,  acute  pang  of  anger  and 

pain 
With   which  he  had   heard   this.     As 

though  to  some  wind 
The  leaves  of  the  hushed  windless  lau- 
rels behind 
The  two  thus  in  converse  were  suddenly 

stirred. 
The   sound   half   betrayed  him.     They 

started.     He  heard 
The  low  voice  of  Lueile  ;  but  so  faint 

was  its  tone 
That  her  answer  escaped  him. 

Luvois  hurried  on, 
As  though  in  remonstrance  with  what 

had  been  spoken. 
"  Nay,    I   know   it,   Lueile !   but  your 

heart  was  not  broken 
By  the  trial  in  which  all  its  fibres  were 

proved. 
Love,  perchance,  you  mistrust,  yet  you 

need  to  be  loved. 
You  mistake  your  own  feelings.     I  fear 

you  mistake 
What  so  ill  I  interpret,  those  feelings 

which  make 


Words    like    these    vague    and    feeble. 

Whatever  your  heart 
May  have  suffered  of  yore,  this  can  only 

impart 

A  pity  profound  to  the  love  which  1  feel. 
Hush  !    hush  !     I    know   all.     Tell   me 

nothing,  Lucile." 
"You    know    all,    Duke?"    she    said; 

"  well  then,  know  that,  in  truth, 
I   have   learned   from   the    mil.    le»on 

taught  to  my  youth 
From  my  own  heart  to  shelter  my  life  ; 

to  mistrust 
The  heart  of  another.     We  are  what  we 

must, 
And  not  what  we  would  be.     I  know 

that  one  hour 
Assures  not  another.     The  will  and  the 

power 
Are  diverse." 

"O   madam!"   he   answered,    "you 

fence 
With  a  feeling  you  know  to  be  true  and 

intense. 
'T  is  not  my  life,  Lueile,  that  I  plead  for 

alone  : 
If  your  nature  I  know,  't  is  no  less  for 

your  own. 
That  nature  will  prey  on  itself ;  it  was 

made 

To  influence  others.     Consider,"  he  said, 
"That  genius  craves  power,  —  what  scope 

for  it  here  ? 
Gifts  less  noble  to  me  give  command  of 

that  sphere 
In  whicBPgenius  is  power.     Such  gifts 

you  despise  ? 
But  you  do  not  disdain  what  such  gifts 

realize  ! 

I  offer  you,  Lady,  a  name  not  unknown — 
A  fortune  which  worthless,  without  you, 

is  grown  — 
All  my  life  at  your  feet  I  lay  down  —  at 

your  feet 
A  heart  which  for  you,  and  you  only. 

can  beat." 

LUCILE. 

That  heart,  Duke,  that  life  —  I  respect 

both.     The  name 
And  position  you  offer,  and  all  that  you 

claim 
In  behalf  of  their  nobler  employment,  I 

feel 
To  deserve  what,   in  turn,   I  now  ask 

you  — 


LUCILE. 


41 


Luvois. 

Lucile ! 

LTJCILE. 
I  ask  you  to  leave  me  — 

Luvois. 

You  do  not  reject  ? 

LUCILE. 
I  ask  you  to  leave  me  the  time  to  reflect. 


Luvois. 


You  ask  me  ?  — 

LUCILE. 

—  The  time  to  reflect. 

Luvois. 

Say  —  One  word  ! 
May  I  hope  ? 

The  reply  of  Lucile  was  not  heard 
By  Lord  Alfred  ;  for  just  then  she  rose, 

and  moved  on. 

The  Duke  bowed  his  lips  o'er  her  hand, 
and  was  gone. 


Not  a  sound  save  the  birds  in  the  bushes. 
And  when 

Alfred  Vargrave  reeled  forth  to  the  sun- 
light again, 

He  just  saw  the  white  robe  of  the  woman 
recede 

As  she  entered  the  house. 

Scarcely  conscious  indeed 

Of  his  steps,  he  too  followed,  and  en- 
tered. 

XXI. 

He  entered 
Unnoticed  ;    Lucile   never   stirred :    so 

concentred 
And  wholly  absorbed  in  her  thoughts 

she  appeared. 
Her  back  to  the  window  was  turned. 

As  he  neared 
The  sofa,  her  face  from  the  glass  was 

reflected. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Pale,  dejected, 
And  lost  in  profound  meditation  she 

seemed. 

Softly,  silently,  over  her  drooped  shoul- 
ders streamed 


The  afternoon  sunlight.      The   cry  of 

alarm 
And  surprise  which  escaped  her,  as  now 

on  her  arm 
Alfred  Vargrave  let  fall  a  hand  icily 

cold 
And  clammy  as  death,  all  too  cruelly 

told 
How  far  he  had  been  from  her  thoughts. 

XXII. 

All  his  cheek 
Was  disturbed  with  the  effort  it  cost  him 

to  speak. 
"  It  was  not  my  fault.     I   have   heard 

all,"  he  said. 
"  Now  the  letters  —  and  farewell,  Lucile  ! 

When  you  wed 
May  —  " 

The    sentence    broke    short,    like    a 

weapon  that  snaps 
When  the  weight  of  a  man  is  upon  it. 

"  Perhaps," 
Said  Lucile  (her  sole  answer  revealed  in 

the  flush 
Of  quick  color  which  up  to  her  brows 

seemed  to  rush 
In  reply  to   those   few  broken  words), 

"  this  farewell 
Is  our  last,   Alfred   Vargrave,    in  life. 

Who  can  tell  ? 
Let  us  part  without  bitterness.     Here 

are  your  letters. 
Be  assured  I  retain  you  no  more  in  my 

fetters  ! "  — 
She  laughed,  as  she  said  this,  a  little 

sad  laugh, 
And  stretched   out  her  hand  with  the 

letters.     And  half 
Wroth  to  feel  his  wrath  rise,  and  unable 

to  trust 
His  own  powers  of  restraint,  in  his  bosom 

he  thrust 
The  packet  she  gave,  with  a  short  angry 

sigh, 
Bowed  his  head,  and  departed  without  a 

reply. 

XXIII. 

And  Lucile  was  alone.     And  the  men 

of  the  world 
Were  gone  back  to  the  world.     And  the 

world's  self  was  furled 
Far  away  from  the  heart  of  the  woman. 

Her  hand 
Drooped,   and  from  it,   unloosed  from 

their  frail  silken  band, 


42 


LUCILE. 


Fell  those  early  lo%'e-letters,  strewn, 
scattered,  and  shed 

At  her  feet  —  life's  lost  blossoms  !  De- 
jected, her  head 

On  her  bosom  was  Ixnved.  Her  gaze 
vaguely  strayed  o'er 

Those  strewn  records  of  passionate  mo- 
ments no  more. 

From  each  page  to  her  sight  leapt  some 
word  that  belied 

The  composure  with  which  she  that  day 
had  denied 

Every  claim  on  her  heart  to  those  poor 
perished  years. 

They  avenged  themselves  now,  and  she 
burst  into  tears. 


CANTO  IV. 


Letter  from  COUSIN  JOHN  to  COUSIN 
ALFRED. 

"  BIC.ORRE,  Thursday. 
"  TIME  up,  you  rascal  !     Come  back,  or 

be  hanged. 
Matilda   grows    peevish.      Her  mother 

harangued 
For  a  whole  hour  this  morning  about 

you.     The  deuce  ! 
What   on   earth  can   I  say  to  you  ?  — 

Nothing 's  of  use. 
And   the   blame   of  the  whole  of  your 

shocking  behavior 
Falls  on  me,  sir  !     Come  back,  —  do  you 

hear  ?  —  or  I  leave  your 
Affairs,  and  abjure  you  forever.     Come 

back 

To  your  anxious  betrothed  ;  and  per- 
plexed 

"  COUSIN  JACK." 


Alfred  needed,  in  truth,  no  entreaties 
from  John 

To  increase  his  impatience  to  fly  from 
Serchon. 

All  the  place  was  now  fraught  with  sen- 
sations of  pain 

Which,  whilst  in  it,  he  strove  to  escape 
from  in  vain. 

A  wild  instinct  warned  him  to  fly  from 
a  place 

Where  he  felt  that  some  fatal  event, 
swift  of  pace, 


Was  approaching  his  life.     In 

his  endeavor 
To  think  of  Matilda,  her  image  forever 
Was  educed  from  his  fancy  by  that  of 

Lucile. 
From  the  ground  which  he  stood  on  he 

felt  nimself  reel. 
Scared,    alarmed    by  those   feelings   to 

which,  on  the  day 
Just  before,   all  his  heart  li 

given  way, 
When  lie  caught,  with  a  strange  sense 

of  fear,  for  assistance, 
At  what  was,  till  then,  the  great  fact  in 

existence, 
'T  was  a  phantom  he  grasped. 

in. 
Having  sent  for  his  guide, 

He  ordered  his  horse,  and  determined  to 
ride 

Back  forthwith  to  Bigorre. 

Then,  the  guide,  who  well  knew 

Every  haunt  of  those  hills,  said  the  wild 
lake  of  Oo 

Lay  a  league  from   Serchon  ;   and  sug- 
gested a  track 

By  the  lake  to  Bigorre,  which,  transvers- 
ing  the  back 

Of  the  mountain,  avoided  a  circuit  be- 
tween 

Two  long  valleys  ;  and  thinking,  "  Per- 
chance change  of  scene 

May  create  change  of  thought,"  Alfred 
Vargrave  agreed, 

Mounted  horse,  and  set  forth  to  Bigorre 
at  full  speed. 


His  guide  rode  beside  him. 

The  king  of  the  guides  ! 
The  gallant   Bernard  !   ever  boldly  he 

rides, 
Ever  gayly  he  sings  !     For  to  him,  from 

of  old, 
The  hills  have   confided   their  secrets, 

and  told 
Where  the  white  partridge  lies,  and  the 

cock  b'  the  woods  ; 
Where  the   izard  flits  fine  through  the 

cold  solitudes  ; 
Where  the  bear  lurks  perdu  ;   and  the 

lynx  on  his  prey 

At  nightfall  descends,  when  the  moun- 
tains are  gray ; 
Where   the   sassafras  blooms,    and   the 

bluebell  is  bom, 


LUCILE. 


And  the  wild  rhododendron  first  reddens 

at  morn  ; 
Where  the  source  of  the  waters  is  fine 

as  a  thread ; 
How  the  storm  on  the  wild  Maladetta  is 

spread  ; 
Where  the  thunder  is  hoarded,  the  snows 

lie  asleep, 
Whence  the  torrents  are  fed,   and  the 

cataracts  leap  ; 
And,  familiarly  known  in  the  hamlets, 

the  vales 

Have  whispered  to  him  all  their  thou- 
sand love-tales ; 
He  has  laughed  with  the  girls,  he  has 

leaped  with  the  boys  ; 
Ever  blithe,   ever  bold,   ever  boon,   he 

enjoys 
An    existence    untroubled  by   envy  or 

strife, 
While  he  feeds  on  the  dews  and  the  juices 

of  life. 
And  so  lightly  he  sings,  and  so  gayly 

he  rides, 
For  BERNARD  LE  SAUTEUR  is  the  king 

of  all  guides  ! 


But  Bernard   found,    that  day,  neither 

song  nor  love-tale, 
Nor  adventure,  nor  laughter,  nor  legend 

avail 
To  arouse  from  his  deep  and  profound 

revery 
Him  that  silent  beside  him  rode  fast  as 

could  be. 


Ascending  the  mountain  they  slackened 
their  pace, 

And  the  marvellous  prospect  each  moment 
changed  face. 

The  breezy  and  pure  inspirations  of  morn 

Breathed  about  them.  The  scarped 
ravaged  mountains,  all  worn 

By  the  torrents,  whose  course  they 
watched  faintly  meander, 

Were  alive  with  the  diamonded  shy  sal- 
amander. 

They  paused  o'er  the  bosom  of  purple 
abysses, 

And  wound  through  a  region  of  green 
wildernesses  ; 

The  waters  went  wirbling  above  and 
around, 

The  forests  hung  heaped  in  their  shad- 
ows profound. 


Here  the  Larboust,  and  there  Aventin, 
Castellon, 

Which  the  Demon  of  Tempest,  descend- 
ing upon, 

Had  wasted  with  fire,  and  the  peaceful 
Cazeaux 

They  marked ;  and  far  down  in  the  sun- 
shine below, 

Half  dipped  in  a  valley  of  airiest  blue, 

The  white  happy  homes  of  the  village 
of  Oo, 

Where  the  age  is  yet  golden. 

And  high  overhead 

The  wrecks  of  the  combat  of  Titans  were 
spread. 

Red  granite  and  quartz,  in  the  alchemic 
sun, 

Fused  their  splendors  of  crimson  and 
crystal  in  one  ; 

And  deep  in  the  moss  gleamed  the  deli- 
cate shells, 

And  the  dew  lingered  fresh  in  the  heavy 
harebells  ; 

The  large  violet  burned ;  the  campanula 
blue  ; 

And  Autumn's  own  flower,  the  saffron, 
peered  through 

The  red-berried  brambles  and  thick  sas- 
safras ; 

And  fragrant  with  thyme  was  the  deli- 
cate grass ; 

And  high  up,  and  higher,  and  highest 
of  all, 

The  secular  phantom  of  snow  ! 

O'er  the  wall 

Of  a  gray  sunless  glen  gaping  drowsy 
below, 

That  aerial  spectre,  revealed  in  the  glow 

Of  the  great  golden  dawn,  hovers  faint 
on  the  eye, 

And  appears  to  grow  in,  and  grow  out 
of,  the  sky, 

And  plays  with  the  fancy,  and  baffles 
the  sight. 

Only  reached  by  the  vast  rosy  ripple  of 
light, 

And  the  cool  star  of  eve,  the  Imperial 
Thing, 

Half   unreal,    like    some    mythological 
king 

That  dominates  all  in  a  fable  of  old, 

Takes  command  of  a  valley  as  fair  to 
behold 

As  aught  in  old  fables  ;   and,  seen  or 
unseen, 

Dwells  aloof  over  all,  in  the  vast  and 
serene 


44 


LUCILE. 


Sacred  sky,  where  the  footsteps  of  spir- 
its are  furled 

'Mid  tin'  clouds  beyond  which  spreads 
the  infinite  world 

Of  man's  last  aspirations,  unfathomed, 
untrod, 

Save  by  Even  and  Morn,  and  the  angels 
of  God. 

VII. 

Meanwhile,  as  they  journeyed,  that  ser- 
pentine road, 

Now  abruptly  reversed,  unexpectedly 
showed 

A  gay  cavalcade  some  few  feet  in  ad- 
vance. 

Alfred  Vargrave's  heart  beat ;  for  he  saw 
at  a  glance 

The  slight  form  of  Lucile  in  the  midst. 
His  next  look 

Showed  him,  joyously  ambling  beside 
her,  the  Duke. 

The  rest  of  the  troop  which  had  thus 
caught  his  ken 

He  knew  not,  nor  noticed  them  (women 
and  men). 

They  were  laughing  and  talking  to- 
gether. Soon  after 

His  sudden  appearance  suspended  their 
laughter. 

VIII. 

"  You  here  !  .  .  .  I  imagined  you  far  on 
your  way 

To  Bigorre  !  "  .  .  .  said  Lucile.  "  "What 
has  caused  you  to  stay  ? " 

"I  am  on  my  way  to  Bigorre,"  he  re- 
plied, 

"  But,  since  my  way  would  seem  to  be 
yours,  let  me  ride 

For  one  moment  beside  you."  And 
then,  with  a  stoop, 

At  her  ear,  ..."  and  forgive  me  ! " 


By  this  time  the  troop 
Had  regathered  its  numbers. 

Lucile  was  as  pale 
As  the  cloud  'neath  their  feet,  on  its  way 

to  the  vale. 
The  Duke  had  observed  it,  nor  quitted 

her  side, 
For  even  one  moment,  the  whole  of  the 

ride. 
Alfred  smiled,   as  he  thought,   "he   is 

jealous  of  her  !  " 
And  the  thought  of  this  jealousy  added 

a  spur 


To  his  firm  resolution  and  effort  to  pl<-a>A 
He  talked   much  ;  was  witty,  UM  <[uilr 
at  his  ease. 


After  noontide,  the  clouds,  which  had 

traversed  the  east 
Half  the  day,  gathered  closer,  and  rose 

and  increased. 
The  air  changed  and  chilled.     As  though 

out  of  the  ground, 
There  ran  up  the  trees  a  confused  hissing 

sound, 
And  the  wind  rose.     The  guides  sniffed, 

like  chamois,  the  air, 
And  looked  at  each  other,  and  halted, 

and  there 
Unbuckled  the  cloaks  from  the  saddles. 

The  white 
Aspens    rustled,   and   turned  up   their 

frail  leaves  in  fright. 
All  announced  the  approach  of  the  tem- 
pest. 

Erelong, 
Thick  darkness  descended  the  mountains 

among  ; 
And  a  vivid,  vindictive,  and  serpentine 

flash 
Gored  the  darkness,  and  shore  it  across 

with  a  gash. 
The  rain  fell  in  large  heavy  drops.     And 

anon 
Broke  the  thunder. 

The  hoi-ses  took  fright,  every  one. 
The  Duke's  in  a  moment  was  far  out  of 

sight. 
The   guides  whooped.     The   band  was 

obliged  to  alight ; 
And,  dispersed  up  the  perilous  pathway, 

walked  blind 
To  the  darkness  before  from  the  darkness 

behind. 

XI. 

And  the  Storm  is  abroad  in  the  moun- 
tains ! 

He  fills 

The  crouched  hollows  and  all  the  oracular 
hills 

With  dread  voices  of  power.     A  roused 
million  or  more 

Of  wild  echoes  reluctantly  rise  from  their 
hoar 

Immemorial   ambush,    and   roll   in   the 
wake 

Of   the  cloud,    whose  reflection   leaves 
vivid  the  lake. 


LUCILE. 


And  the  wind,  that  wild  robber,  for  plun- 
der descends 

From  invisible  lands,  o'er  those  black 
mountain  ends  ; 

He  howls  as  he  hounds  down  his  prey  ; 
and  his  lash 

Tears  the  hair  of  the  timorous  wan 
mountain-ash, 

That  clings  to  the  rocks,  with  her  gar- 
ments all  torn, 

Like  a  woman  in  fear  ;  then  he  blows 
his  hoarse  horn, 

And  is  off,  the  fierce  guide  of  destruction 
and  terror, 

Up  the  desolate  heights,  'mid  an  intri- 
cate error 

Of  mountain  and  mist. 


XII. 

There  is  war  in  the  skies  ! 
Lo  !  the  black-winged  legions  of  tempest 

arise 
O'er  those   sharp  splintered  rocks  that 

are  gleaming  below 
In  the  soft  light,  so  fair  and  so  fatal,  as 

though 
Some  seraph  burned  through  them,  the 

thunder-bolt  searching 
Which  the  black  cloud  unbosomed  just 

now.     Lo  !  the  lurching 
And  shivering  pine-trees,  like  phantoms, 

that  seem 
To  waver  above,  in  the  dark  ;  and  yon 

stream, 
How  it  hurries  and  roars,  on  its  way  to 

the  white 
And  paralyzed  lake  there,  appalled  at  the 

sight 
Of  the  things  seen  in  heaven  ! 

XIII. 

Through  the  darkness  and  awe 
That  had  gathered  around  him,  Lord 

Alfred  now  saw, 
Revealed  in  the  fierce  and  evanishing 

glare 
Of  the  lightning  that  momently  pulsed 

through  the  air, 

A  woman  alone  on  a  shelf  of  the  hill, 
With  her  cheek  coldly  propped  on  her 

hand,  —  and  as  still 
As  the    rock  that  she  sat   on,    which 

beetled  above 
The  black  lake  beneath  her. 

All  terror,  all  love, 


Added  speed  to  the  instinct  with  which 

he  rushed  on. 
For    one    moment    the  blue   lightning 

swathed  the  whole  stone 
In  its  lurid    embrace  :   like  the   sleek 

dazzling  snake 
That  encircles  a  sorceress,  charmed  for 

her  sake 
And  lulled  by  her  loveliness  ;  fawning, 

it  played 
And  caressingly  twined  round  the  feet 

and  the  head  _ 
Of  the  woman  who  sat  there,  undaunted 

and  calm 
As  the  soul  of  that  solitude,  listing  the 

psalm 
Of  the  plangent  and  laboring  tempest 

roll  slow 
From  the  caldron  of  midnight  and  vapor 

below. 
Next  moment  from  bastion  to  bastion, 

all  round, 
Of   the    siege-circled  mountains,  there 

tumbled  the  sound 
Of   the   battering   thunder's    indefinite 

peal, 
And  Lord  Alfred  had  sprung  to  the  feet 

of  Lucile. 

XIV. 

She  started.     Once  more,  with  its  flick- 
ering wand, 

The  lightning  approached  her.   In  terror, 
her  hand 

Alfred  Vargrave  had  seized  within  his  ; 
and  he  felt 

The  light  fingers  that  coldly  and  linger- 
ingly  dwelt 

In  the  grasp  of  his  own,  tremble  faintly. 
"See  !  see  ! 

Where  the  whirlwind  hath  stricken  and 
strangled  yon  tree  !  " 

She  exclaimed,  .  .  .  "like  the  passion 
that  brings  on  its  breath, 

To  the  being  it  embraces,  destruction  and 
death  ! 

Alfred  Vargrave,  the  lightning  is  round 
you  !  " 

"Lucile! 

I   hear  —  I   see  —  naught  but  yourself. 
I  can  feel 

Nothing  here  but   your  presence.     My 
pride  fights  in  vain 

With  the  truth  that  leaps  from  me.     We 
two  meet  again 

'Neath  yon  terrible  heaven  that  is  watch- 
ing above 


46 


LUCILE. 


To  avenge  if  I  Ho  when  I  swear  that  I 

love,  — 
And  beneath  yonder  terrible  heaven,  at 

your  feet, 
I  humble  my  head  and  my  heart.     I  en- 

treat 
Your  pardon,  Lucile,  for  the  past,  —  I 

implore 
For  the  future  your  mercy,  —  implore  it 

with  more 
Of  passion   than  prayer  ever  breathed. 

By  the  jM>\ver 
"Which  invisibly  touches  us  both  in  this 

hour, 
By  the  rights  I  have  o'er  you,  Lucile,  I 

demand  "  — 

"  The  rights  !  "  .  .  .  said  Lucile,  and 
drew  from  him  her  hand. 

"Yes,  the  rights  !  for  what  greater  to 

man  may  belong 
Than  the  right  to  repair  in  the  future 

the  wrong 
To  the  past  ?  and  the  wrong  I  have  done 

you,  of  yore, 
Hath  bequeathed  to  me  all  the  sad  right 

to  restore, 
To  retrieve,  to  amend  !     I,  who  injured 

your  life, 
Urge  the  right  to  repair  it,  Lucile  1    Be 

my  wife, 
My  guide,  my  good  angel,  my  all  upon 

earth, 

And  accept,  for  the  sake  of  what  yet  may 
ive  worth 


gve 
life, 


To  my  life,  its  contrition  !" 


He  paused,  for  there  came 
O'er  the  cheek  of  Lucile  a  swift   flush 

like  the  flame 
That  illumined  at  moments  the  darkness 

o'erhead. 
With  a  voice  faint  and  marred  by  emotion, 

she  said, 
"And  your  pledge  to  another  ?" 

XVI. 

"Hush,  hush  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
"My  honor  will   live  where  my  love 

lives,  unshamed. 
T  were  poor  honor  indeed,  to  another  to 

give 
That  life  of  which  you  keep  the  heart. 

Could  I  live 


In  the  light  of  those  young  eyes,  sup- 
pressing a  lie  ? 
Alas,  no  !   your  hand  holds  my  whole 

destiny. 
I  can  never  recall  what  my  lips  have 

avowed  ; 
In  your  love  lies  whatever  can  render  me 

proud. 
For  the  great  crime  of  all  my  existence 

hath  been 
To  have  known  you  in  vain.     And  the 

duty  best  seen, 
And  most  hallowed,  —  the   duty  most 

sacred  and  sweet, 
Is  that  which  hath  led  me,  Lucile,  to 

your  feet. 

0  speak  !  and  restore  me  the  blessing  I 

lost 
When  I  lost  you,  —  my  pearl  of  all  pearls 

beyond  cost  ! 
And  restore  to  your  own  life  its  youth, 

and  restore 
The  vision,  the  rapture,  the  passion  of 

yore  ! 
Ere  our  brows  had  been  dimmed  in  the 

dust  of  the  world, 
When  our  souls  their  white  wings  yet 

exulting  unfurled  ! 

For  your  eyes  rest  no  more  on  the  un- 
quiet man, 
The  wild  star  of  whose  course  its  pale 

orbit  outran, 
Whom  the  formless  indefinite  future  of 

youth, 
With  its  lying  allurements,  distracted. 

In  truth 

1  have  wearily  wandered  the  world,  and 

I  feel 
That  the  least  of  your  lovely  regards,  0 

Lucile, 
Is  worth  all  the  world  can  afford,  and 

the  dream 
Which,  though  followed  forever,  forever 

doth  seem 
As  fleeting,  and  distant,  and  dim,  as  of 

yore 
When  it  brooded  in  twilight,  at  dawn, 

on  the  shore 
Of  life's  untraversed  ocean  !     I  know  the 

sole  path 

To  repose,  which  my  desolate  destiny  hath, 
Is  the  path  by  whose  course  to  your  feet 

I  return. 
And  who  else,  0  Lucile,  will  so  truly 

discern, 
And  so  deeply  revere,  all  the  passionate 

strength, 


NEITHER  HE  NOR  LUCILE  FELT  THE  RAIN 


LUCILE. 


47 


The  sublimity  in  you,  as  he  whom  at 

length 
These  have  saved  from  himself,  for  the 

truth  they  reveal 
To  his  worship  ? " 


She  spoke  not  ;  but  Alfred  could  feel 
,The  light  hand  and  arm,  that  upon  him 

reposed, 
Thrill  and  tremble.     Those  dark  eyes 

of  hers  were  half  closed  ; 
But,    under    their    languid  mysterious 

fringe, 
A  passionate  softness  was  beaming.    One 

tinge 
Of  faint  inward  fire  flushed  transparently 

through 

The  delicate,  pallid,  and  pure  olive  hue 
Of  the  cheek,  half  averted  and  drooped. 

The  rich  bosom 
Heaved,    as  when  in   the    heart  of   a 

ruffled  rose-blossom 
A  bee  is  imprisoned  and  struggles. 

XVIII. 

Meanwhile 
The  sun,  in  his  setting,  sent  up  the  last 

smile 
Of  his  power,  to  baffle  the  storm.     And, 

behold  ! 
O'er    the     mountains     embattled,    his 

armies,  all  gold, 
Rose  and  rested  :  while  far  up  the  dim 

airy  crags, 

Its  artillery  silenced,  its  banners  in  rags, 
The  rear  of  the  tempest  its  sullen  retreat 
Drew  off  slowly,  receding  in  silence,  to 

meet 
The  powers  of  the  night,  which,  now 

gathering  afar, 
Had  already  sent  forward  one  bright, 

signal  star. 

The  curls  of  her  soft  and  luxuriant  hair, 
From  the  dark  riding-hat,  which  Lucile 

used  to  wear, 
Had  escaped ;    and    Lord  Alfred  now 

covered  with  kisses 

The  redolent  warmth  of  those  long  fall- 
ing tresses. 
Neither  he,   nor  Lucile,  felt  the  rain, 

which  not  yet 
Had  ceased  falling  around  them  ;  when, 

splashed,  drenched,  and  wet, 
The  Due   de   Luvois  down   the  rough 

mountain  course 


Approached  them  as  fast  as  the  road, 

and  his  horse, 
Which  was  limping,  would  suffer.     The 

beast  had  just  now 
Lost  his  footing,  and  over  the  perilous 

brow 

Of  the  storm-haunted  mountain  his  mas- 
ter had  thrown ; 
But  the  Duke,  who  was  agile,  had  leaped 

to  a  stone, 
And  the  horse,  being  bred  to  the  instinct 

which  fills 
The  breast  of  the  wild  mountaineer  in 

these  hills, 
Had  scrambled  again  to  his  feet ;  and 

now  master 
And  horse  bore  about  them  the  signs  of 

disaster, 
As  they  heavily  footed  their  way  through 

the  mist, 
The  horse  with  his  shoulder,  the  Duke 

with  his  wrist, 
Braised  and  bleeding. 

XIX. 

If  ever  your  feet,  like  my  own, 

0  reader,  have  traversed  these  moun- 
tains alone, 

Have  you  felt  your  identity  shrink  and 
contract 

At  the  sound  of  the  distant  and  dim 
cataract, 

In  the  presence  of  nature's  immensities  ? 
Say, 

Have  you  hung  o'er  the  torrent,  bedewed 
with  its  spray, 

And,  leaving  the  rock-way,  contorted 
and  rolled, 

Like  a  huge  couchant  Typhon,  fold 
heaped  over  fold, 

Tracked  the  summits,  from  which  every 
step  that  you  tread 

Rolls  the  loose  stones,  with  thunder  be- 
low, to  the  bed 

Of  invisible  waters,  whose  mystical  sound 

Fills  with  awful  suggestions  the  dizzy 
profound  ? 

And,  laboring  onwards,  at  last  through 
a  break 

In  the  walls  of  the  world,  burst  at  once 
on  the  lake  ? 

If  you  have,   this  description  I  might 

have  withheld. 
You  remember  how  strangely  your  boson*. 

has  swelled 


48 


LUCILE. 


At  the  vision  revealed.  On  the  over- 
worked soil 

Of  this  planet,  enjoyment  is  sharpened 
by  toil ; 

And  one  seems,  by  the  pain  of  ascending 
•the  height, 

To  have  roiHiui-ivd  a  claim  to  that  won- 
derful sight. 


Hail,  virginal  daughter  of  cold  Espingo ! 

Hail,  Naiad,  whose  realm  is  the  cloud 
and  the  snow  ; 

For  o'er  thee  the  angels  have  whitened 
their  wings, 

And  the  thirst  of  the  seraphs  is  quenched 
at  thy  springs. 

What  hand  hath,  in  heaven,  upheld 
thine  expanse  ? 

When  the  breath  of  creation  first  fash- 
ioned fair  France, 

Did  the  Spirit  of  111,  in  his  downthrow 
appalling, 

Bruise  the  world,  and  thus  hollow  thy 
basin  while  falling  ? 

Ere  the  mammoth  was  born  hath  some 
monster  unnamed 

The  base  of  thy  mountainous  pedestal 
framed  ? 

And  later,  when  Power  to  Beauty  was 
wed, 

Did  some  delicate  fairy  embroider  thy 
bed 

With  the  fragile  valerian  and  wild  col- 
umbine ? 

XXI. 

But  thy  secret  thou  kecpest,  and  I  will 

keep  mine  ; 
For  once  gazing  on  thee,  it  flashed  on 

my  soul, 
All  that  secret !     I  saw  in  a  vision  the 

whole 
Vast  design  of  the  ages  ;  what  was  and 

shall  be  ! 
Hands  unseen  raised  the  veil  of  a  great 

mystery 
For  one  moment.     I  saw,  and  I  heard  ; 

and  my  heart 

Bore  witness  within  me  to  infinite  art, 
In  infinite  power  proving  infinite  love  ; 
Caught  the  great  choral  chant,  marked 

the  dread  pageant  move  — 
The  divine  Whence  and  Whither  of  life  ! 

But,  O  daughter 
Of  Oo,  not  more  safe  in  the  deep  silent 

water 


Is  thy  secret,  than  mine  in  my  heart. 

Even  so. 
What  I  then  saw  and  heard,  the  world 

never  shall  know. 

XXII. 

The  dimness  of  eve  o'er  the  valleys  had 
closed, 

The  rain  had  ceased  falling,  the  moun- 
tains reposed. 

The  stars  had  enkindled  in  luminous 
courses 

Their  slow-sliding  lamps,  when,  re- 
mounting their  horses, 

The  riders  retraversed  that  mighty  ser- 
ration 

Of  rock-work.  Thus  left  to  its  own 
desolation, 

The  lake,  from  whose  glimmering  limits 
the  last 

Transient  pomp  of  the  pageants  of  sun- 
set had  passed, 

Drew  into  its  bosom  the  darkness,  and 
only 

Admitted  within  it  one  image,  —  a  lonely 

And  tremulous  phantom  of  flickering 
light 

That  followed  the  mystical  moon  through 
the  night. 

XXIII. 

It  was  late  when  o'er  Serchon  at  last 

they  descended. 
To  her  chalet,   in  silence,  Lord  Alfred 

attended 
Lucile.     As  they  parted  she  whispered 

him  low, 
"  You  have  made  to  me,  Alfred,  an  offer 

I  know 
All  the  worth  of,  believe  me.     I  cannot 

reply 
Without  time  for  reflection.    Good  night ! 

—  not  good  by." 

"Alas  !  'tis  the  very  same  answer  you 

made 
To  the  Due  de  Luvois  but  a  day  since," 

he  said. 

"No,  Alfred!  the  very  same,  no,"  she 

replied. 
Her  voice  shook.     "If  you   love  me, 

obey  me. 
Abide  my  answer,  to-morrow." 

XXIV. 

Alas,  Cousin  Jack  ! 


LUCILE. 


49 


You  Cassandra  in  breeches  and  boots  ! 

turn  your  back 
To  the  ruins  of  Troy.    Prophet,  seek  not 

for  glory 
Amongst  thine  own  people. 

I  follow  my  story. 


CANTO   V. 


UP  ! — forth  again,  Pegasus  !  —  "Many's 
the  slip," 

Hath  the  proverb  well  said,  "'twixt  the 
cup  and  the  lip  !  " 

How  blest  should  we  be,  have  I  often 
conceived, 

Had  we  really  achieved  what  we  nearly 
achieved  ! 

We  but  catch  at  the  skirts  of  the  thing 
we  would  be, 

And  fall  back  on  the  lap  of  a  false  destiny. 

So  it  will  be,  so  has  'been,  since  this 
world  began  ! 

And  the  happiest,  noblest,  and  best  part 
of  man 

la  the  part  which  he  never  hath  fully 
played  out : 

For  the  first  and  last  word  in  life's  vol- 
ume is  —  Doubt. 

The  face  the  most  fair  to  our  vision  al- 
lowed 

Is  the  face  we  encounter  and  lose  in  the 
crowd. 

The  thought  that  most  thrills  our  exist- 
ence is  one 

Which,  before  we  can  frame  it  in  lan- 
guage, is  gone. 

0  Horace  !  the  rustic  still  rests  by  the 

river, 
But  the  river  flows  on,  and  flows  past 

him  forever  ! 
Who  can  sit  down,  and  say,  ..."  What 

I  will  be,  I  will"? 
Who  stand  up,  and  affirm  .  .  .  "What 

I  was,  I  am  still "  ? 
Who  is  it  that  must  not,  if  questioned, 

say,  ..."  What 

1  would  have  remained,    or  become,   I 

am  not"  ? 

We  are  ever  behind,  or  beyond,  or  beside 
Our  intrinsic  existence.  Forever  at  hide 
And  seek  with  our  souls.  Not  in  Hades 

alone 
Doth  Sisyphus  roll,  ever  frustrate,  the 

stone, 


Do  theDanaids  ply,  ever  vainly,  the  sieve. 
Tasks  as  futile  does  earth  to  its  denizens 

give. 
Yet  there 's  none  so  unhappy,  but  what 

he  hath  been 
Just  about  to  be  happy,  at  some  time,  I 

ween  ; 
And  none  so  beguiled  and  defrauded  by 

chance, 
But  what  once,  in  his  life,  some  minute 

circumstance 
Would  have  fully  sufficed  to  secure  him 

the  bliss 
Which,  missing  it  then,  he  forever  must 

miss ; 
And  to  most  of  us,  ere  we  go  down  to 

the  grave, 
Life,  relenting,  accords  the  good  gift  we 

would  have  ; 

But,  as  though  by  some  strange  imper- 
fection in  fate, 
The  good  gift,  when  it  comes,  comes  a 

moment  too  late. 

The  Future's  great  veil  our  breath  fit- 
fully flaps, 
And  behind  it  broods  ever  the  mighty 

Perhaps. 
Yet !  there 's  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  cup 

and  the  lip ; 
But  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beaker 

I  dip, 
Though  the  cup  may  next  moment  be 

shattered,  the  wine 
Spilt,  one  deep  health  I  '11  pledge,  and 

that  health  shall  be  thine, 
0  being  of  beauty  and  bliss  !  seen  and 

known 
In  the  deeps  of  my  soul,  and  possessed 

there  alone  ! 
My  days  know  thee  not ;  and  my  lipp 

name  thee  never.  I 

Thy  place  in  my  poor  life  is  vacant  for- 
ever. 
We  have  met :   we  have  parted.     No 

more  is  recorded 
In  my  annals  on  earth.     This  alone  was 

afforded 
To  the  man  whom  men  knew  me,  or 

deem  me,  to  be. 
But,  far  down,  in  the  depth  of  my  life's 

mystery, 
(Like  the   siren   that   under  the  deep 

ocean  dwells, 
Whom  the  wind  as  it  wails,  and  the 

wave  as  it  swells, 
Cannot  stir  in  the  calm  of  her  coralline 

halls, 


50 


LUCILE. 


'Mid  the  world's  adamantine  and  dim 

pedestals ; 
At  whose  feet   sit  the  sylphs  and  sea 

fairies  ;   for  whom 

The  almondine  glimmers,  the  soft  sam- 
phires bloom)  — 
Thou  abidest  and  reignest  forever,   0 

Queen 
Of  that  better  world  which  thou  swayest 

unseen  I 
My  one  perfect  mistress  !  my  all  things 

in  all! 
Thee  by  no  vulgar  name  known  to  men 

do  I  call : 
For  the  seraphs  have  named  thee  to  me 

in  my  sleep, 
And  that  name  is  a  secret  I  sacredly 

keep. 
But,  wherever  this  nature  of  mine  is 

most  fair, 

And  its  thoughts  are  the  purest  —  be- 
loved, thou  art  there  ! 
And  whatever  is  noblest  in  aught  that  I 

do, 

Is  done  to  exalt  and  to  worship  thee  too. 
The  world  gave  thee  not  to  me,  no  !  and 

the  world 
Cannot  take  thee  away  from  me  now. 

1  have  furled 
The  wings  of  my  spirit  about  thy  bright 

head  ; 
At  thy  feet  are  my  soul's  immortalities 

spread. 
Thou  mightest  have  been  to  me  much. 

Thou  art  more. 
And  in  silence  I  worship,  in  darkness 

adore. 
If  life  be  not  that  which  without  us  we 

find  — 
Chance,  accident,  merely  —  but  rather 

the  mind, 
And  the  soul  which,  within  us,  surviv- 

eth  these  things, 
If   our   real    existence    have   truly  its 

springs 
Less  in  that  which  we  do  than  in  that 

which  we  feel, 
Not  in  vain  do  I  worship,  not  hopeless 

I  kneel ! 

For  then,  though  I  name  thee  not  mis- 
tress or  wife, 
Thou  art  mine  —  and  mine  only,  —  0 

life  of  my  life  ! 
And  though  many  's  the  slip  'twixt  the 

cup  and  the  lip, 
Yet  while  o'er  the  brim  of  life's  beaker 

I  dip, 


While  there's  life  on  the  lip,  whil« 
there 's  warmth  in  the  wine, 

One  deep  health  I  '11  pledge,  and  that 
health  shall  be  tliine  ! 


This  world,  on  whose  peaceable  breast 
we  repose 

Unconvulsed  by  alarm,  once  confused  in 
the  throes 

Of  a  tumult  divine,  sea  and  land,  moist 
and  dry, 

And  in  fiery  fusion  commixed  earth  and 
sky. 

Time  cooled  it,  and  calmed  it,  and 
taught  it  to  go 

The  round  of  its  orbit  in  peace,  long  ago. 

The  wind  changeth  and  whirleth  con- 
tinually : 

All  the  rivers  run  down  and  run  into 
the  sea  : 

The  wind  whirleth  about,  and  is  pres- 
ently stilled : 

All  the  rivers  run  down,  yet  the  sea  is 
not  filled : 

The  sun  goeth  forth  from  his  chambers  : 
the  sun 

Ariseth,  and  lo  !  he  descendeth  anon. 

All  returns  to  its  place.  Use  and  Habit 
are  powers 

Far  stronger  than  Passion,  in  this  world 
of  ours. 

The  great  laws  of  life  readjust  their  in- 
fraction, 

And  to  every  emotion  appoint  a  reaction. 

in. 

Alfred  Vargrave  had  time,  after  leaving 

LucQe, 
To  review  the  rash  step  he  had  taken, 

and  feel 
What  the  world  would  have  called  "his 

erroneous  position. " 
Thought  obtruded  its  claim,  and  enforced 

recognition  : 
Like  a  creditor  who,  when  the  gloss  is 

worn  out 
On  the  coat  which  we  once  wore  with 

pleasure,  no  doubt, 
Sends  us  in  his  account  for  the  garment 

we  bought. 
Every  spendthrift  to  passion  is  debtor  to 

thought. 

IV. 

He  felt  ill  at  ease  with  himself.  He 
could  feel 


LUCILE. 


51 


Little  doubt  what  the  answer  would  be 

from  Lucile. 
Her  eyes,  when  they  parted,  — her  voice, 

when  they  met, 
Still   enraptured  his  heart,  which  they 

haunted.     And  yet, 
Though,    exulting,   he   deemed   himself 

loved,  where  he  loved, 
Through  his  mind  a  vague  self-accusation 

there  moved. 
O'er  his  fancy,  when  fancy  was  fairest, 

would  rise 

The  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with  eyes 
So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly  kind, 
That  his  heart  failed  within  him.  In  vain 

did  he  find 
A  thousand  just  reasons  for  what  he  had 

done  : 
The  vision  that  troubled  him  would  not 

be  gone. 
In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  and  with 

truth, 
"Matilda  has  beauty,  and  fortune,  and 

youth  ; 
And  her  heart  is  too  young  to  have  deeply 

involved 
All  its  hopes  in  the  tie  which  must  now 

be  dissolved. 
'T  were  a  false  sense  of  honor  in  me  to 

suppress 
The  sad  truth  which  I  owe  it  to  her  to 

confess. 
And  what  reason  have  I  to  presume  this 

poor  life 
Of  my  own,  with  its  languid  and  frivolous 

strife, 
And  without  what  alone  might  endear 

it  to  her, 
Were  a  boon  all  so  precious,  indeed,  to 

confer, 
Its  withdrawal  can  wrong  her  ? 

"  It  is  not  as  though 
I  were  bound  to  some  poor  village  maiden, 

I  know, 
Unto  whose  simple  heart  mine  were  all 

upon  earth, 
Or  to  whose   simple  fortunes   my  own 

could  give  worth. 
Matilda,  in  all  the  world's  gifts,  will  not 

miss 
Aught  that  I  could  procure  her.     'T  is 

best  as  it  is  !  " 

v. 

In  vain  did  he  say  to  himself,  "  When 

I  came 
To  this  fatal  spot,  I  had  nothing  to  blame 


Or  reproach  myself  for,  in  the  thoughts 

of  my  heart. 
I  could  not  foresee  that  its  pulses  would 

start 
Into   such   strange    emotion  on   seeing 

once  more 

A  woman  I  left  with  indifference  before. 
I  believed,  and  with  honest  conviction 

believed, 

In  my  love  for  Matilda.     I  never  con- 
ceived 
That  another  could  shake  it.     I  deemed 

I  had  done  i 

With  the  wild  heart  of  youth,  and  looked 

hopefully  on 
To  the  soberer  manhood,  the  worthier 

life, 
Which  I  sought  in  the  love  that  I  vowed 

to  my  wife. 
Poor  child  !  she   shall  learn  the  whole 

truth.     She  shall  know 
What  I  knew  not  myself  but  a  few  days 

ago. 
The  world  will  console  her,  —  her  pride 

will  support,  — 
Her  youth  will  renew  its  emotions.     In 

short, 
There  is  nothing  in  me  that  Matilda  will 

miss 
When  once  we  have  parted.     'T  is  best 

as  it  is  !  " 


But  in  vain  did  he  reason  and  argue. 
Alas! 

He  yet  felt  unconvinced  that 't  was  best 
as  it  was. 

Out  of  reach  of  all  reason,  forever  would 
rise 

That  infantine  face  of  Matilda,  with 
eyes 

So  sad,  so  reproachful,  so  cruelly  kind, 

That  they  harrowed  his  heart  and  dis- 
tracted his  mind. 


And  then,  when  he  turned  from  these 
thoughts  to  Lucile, 

Though  his  heart  rose  enraptured,  he 
could  not  but  feel 

A  vague  sense  of  awe  of  her  nature.  Be- 
hind 

All  the  beauty  of  heart,  and  the  graces 
of  mind, 

Which  he  saw  and  revered  in  her,  some- 
thing unknown 


52 


LUCILE. 


And  unseen  in  that  nature  still  troubled 

his  own. 

He  felt  that  Lucile  penetrated  and  pri/ed 
Whatever  was  noblest  and  best,  though 

disguised, 
In  himself  ;  but  he  did  not  feel  sure  that 

hi1  knew, 

Or  completely  possessed,  what,  half  hid- 
den from  view, 
Remained  lofty  and  lonely  in  her. 

Then,  her  life, 
So   untamed,   and  so   free  !   would  she 

yield  as  a  wife, 
Independence,  long  claimed  as  a  woman  ? 

Her  name, 
So  linked  by  the  world  with  that  spurious 

fame 
Which  the  beauty  and  wit  of  a  woman 

assert, 
In  some  measure,  alas  !  to  her  own  loss 

and  hurt 
In  the  serious  thoughts  of  a  man  !  .  .  . 

This  reflection 
O'er  the  love  which  he  felt  cast  a  shade 

of  dejection, 
From  which  he  forever  escaped  to  the 

thought 
Doubt  could  reach  not.  .  .  .  "I  love  her, 

and  all  else  is  naught ! " 


His  hand  trembled  strangely  in  breaking 

the  seal 
Of  the  letter  which  reached  him  at  last 

from  Lucile. 
At  the  sight  of  the  very  first  word  that 

he  read, 
That  letter  dropped  down  from  his  hand 

like  the  dead 
Leaf  in   autumn,   that,    falling,    leaves 

naked  and  bare 

A  desolate  tree  in  a  wide  wintry  air. 
He  passed  his  hand  hurriedly  over  his 

eyes, 

Bewildered,    incredulous.      Angry  sur- 
prise 
And  dismay,  in  one  sharp  moan,  broke 

from  him.     Anon 
He  flicked  up  the  page,  and  read  rapidly 


IX. 

The  COMTESSE  DE   NEVERS  to  LORD 
ALFRED  VARGRAVE. 

"No,  Alfred  ! 

"If  over  the  present,  when  last 


We  two  met,  rose  the  glamour  and  mist 

of  the  past, 
It  hath  now  rolled  away,  and  our  two 

paths  are  plain, 
And  those  two  paths  divide  us. 

"  That  hand  which  again 
Mine  one   moment  has  clasped  as  the 

hand  of  a  brother, 
That  hand  and  your  honor  arc  pledged 

to  another ! 
Forgive,  Alfred  Vargrave,  forgive  me,  if 

yet 
For  that  moment  (now  past !)  I   have 

made  you  forget 
What  was  due  to  yourself  and  that  other 

one.     Yes, 

Mine  the  fault,  and  be  mine  the  repent- 
ance !     Not  less, 
In  now  owning  this  fault,   Alfred,  let 

me  own,  too, 

I  foresaw  not  the  sorrow  involved  in  it. 

"True, 
That  meeting,  which  hath  been  so  fatal, 

I  sought, 
I  alone  !     But  0,  deem  not  it  was  with 

the  thought 
Or  your  heart  to  regain,  or  the  past  to 

rewaken. 
No  !   believe  me,  it  was  with  the  firm 

and  unshaken 
Conviction,  at  least,  that  our  meeting 

would  be 
Without  peril  to  you,  although  haply  to 

me 
The  salvation  of  all  my  existence. 

"  I  own, 
When  the  rumor  first  reached  me,  which 

lightly  made  known 
To  the  world'your  engagement,  my  heart 

and  my  mind 
Suffered  torture  intense.     It  was  cruel 

to  find 
That  so  much  of  the  life  of  my  life,  half 

unknown 

To  myself,  had  been  silently  settled  on  one 
Upon  whom  but  to  think  it  would  soon 

be  a  crime. 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  '  From  the  thral- 
dom which  time 
Hath  not  weakened  *here  rests  but  one 

hope  of  escape. 
That  image  which  Fancy  seems  ever  to 

shape 
From  the  solitude  left  round  the  ruins 

of  yore 
Is  a  phantom.     The  Being  I  loved  is  no 


LUCILE. 


What  I  hear  in  the  silence,  and  see  in 

the  lone 
Void  of  life,  is  the  young  hero  born  of 

my  own 
Perished  youth  :  and  his  image,  serene 

and  sublime, 
In  my  heart  rests  unconscious  of  change 

and  of  time. 
Could  I  see  it  but  once  more,  as  time 

and  as  change 
Have  made  it,  a  thing  unfamiliar  and 

strange, 
See,  indeed,  that  the  Being  I  loved  in 

my  youth 
Is  no  more,  and  what  rests  now  is  only, 

in  truth, 
The  hard  pupil  of  life  and  the  world  : 

then,  0,  then, 
I  should  wake  from  a  dream,  and  my 

life  be  again 
Reconciled  to  the  world  ;  and,  released 

from  regret, 

Take  the  lot  fate  accords  to  my  choice. ' 
"So  we  met. 

But  the  danger  I  did  not  foresee  has  oc- 
curred : 
The  danger,  alas,  to  yourself !   I  have 

erred. 
But  happy  for  both  that  this  error  hath 

been 
Discovered  as  soon  as  the  danger  was 

seen  ! 
We  meet,  Alfred  Vargrave,  no  more.     I, 

indeed, 

Shall  be  far  from  Serchon  when  this  let- 
ter you  read. 

My  course  is  decided ;  my  path  I  discern : 
Doubt  is  over  ;  my  future  is  fixed  now. 
"  Return, 
0   return  to  the    young   living   love !. 

Whence,  alas  ! 
If,  one  moment,  you  wandered,  think 

only  it  was 
More  deeply  to  bury  the  past  love. 

"And,  oh! 
Believe,  Alfred  Vargrave,  that  I,  where 

I  go 
On  my  far  distant  pathway  through  life, 

shall  rejoice* 
To  treasure  in  memory  all  that  your 

voice 
Has  avowed  to  me,  all  in  which  others 

have  clothed 
To  my  fancy  with  beauty  and  worth 

your  betrothed  ! 
In  the  fair  morning  light,  in  the  orient 

dew 


Of  that  young  life,  now  yours,  can  you 

fail  to  renew 
All  the  noble  and  pure  aspirations,  the 

truth, 
The  freshness,  the  faith,  of  your  own 

earnest  youth  ? 
Yes  !  you  will  be  happy.     I,  too,  in  the 

bliss 
I   foresee   for  you,   I   shall  be  happy. 

And  this 
Proves  me  worthy  your  friendship.    And 

so  —  let  it  prove 
That  I  cannot  —  I  do  not  —  respond  to 

your  love. 
Yes,  indeed  !  be  convinced  that  I  could 

not  (no,  no, 
Never,  never  !)  have  rendered  you  happy. 

And  so, 
Rest  assured  that,  if  false  to  the  vows 

you  have  plighted, 
You  would  have  endured,  when  the  first 

brief,  excited 

Emotion   was    o'er,    not  alone  the  re- 
morse 

Of  honor,  but  also  (to  render  it  worse) 
Disappointed  affection. 

' '  Yes,  Alfred  ;  you  start  ? 
But  think  !  if  the  world  was  too  much 

in  your  heart, 
And  too  little  in  mine,  when  we  parted 

ten  years 
Ere  this  last  fatal  meeting,  that  time 

(ay,  and  tears  !) 
Have  but  deepened  the  old  demarcations 

which  then 
Placed  our  natures  asunder ;   and  we 

two  again, 
As  we  then  were,  would  still  have  been 

strangely  at  strife. 
In  that   self-independence  which  is  to 

my  life 
Its  necessity  now,   as  it   once  was  its 

pride, 
Had  our  course  through  the  world  been 

henceforth  side  by  side, 
I   should    have    revolted    forever,   and 

shocked, 
Your  respect  for  the  world's  plausibilities, 

mocked, 
Without  meaning  to  do  so,  and  outraged, 

all  those 
Social  creeds  which  you  live  by. 

"  Oh  !  do  not  suppose 
That  I  blame  you.     Perhaps  it  is  you 

that  are  right. 
Best,  then,  all  as  it  is  ! 

"Deem  these  words  life's  Good-night 


54 


LUCILE. 


To  the  hope  of  a  moment :  no  more  ! 

If  there  fell 
Any  tear  on  this  page,  't  was  a  friend's. 

"So  lllivwell 

To  the  past  — and  to  you,  Alfred  Vai- 
grave. 

"  LUCILE." 


So  ended  that  letter. 

The  room  seemed  to  reel 
Round  and  round  in  the  mist  that  was 

scorching  his  eyes 
With  a  fiery  dew.     Grief,   resentment, 

surprise, 
Half  choked  him  ;   each  word  he  had 

iv*  1,  as  it  smote 
Down  some  hope,  rose  and  grasped  like 

a  hand  at  his  throat, 
To  stifle  and  strangle  him. 

Gasping  already 
For  relief  from  himself,  with  a  footstep 

unsteady, 
He  passed  from  his  chamber.     He  felt 

both  oppressed 
And  excited.     The  letter  he  thrust  in 

his  breast, 

And,  in  search  of  fresh  air  and  of  soli- 
tude, passed 
The   long  lime-trees  of  Serchon.     His 

footsteps  at  last 
Reached  a  bare  narrow  heath  by  the  skirts 

of  a  wood  : 
It  was  sombre  and  silent,  and  suited  his 

mood. 
By  a  mineral  spring,  long  unused,  now 

unknown, 
Stood  a  small  ruined  abbey.    He  reached 

it,  sat  down 
On  a  fragment  of  stone,  'mid  the  wild 

weed  and  thistle, 
And   read  over  again   that  perplexing 

epistle. 

XI. 

In   re-reading  that  letter,  there  rolled 

from  his  mind 
The  raw  mist  of  resentment  which  first 

made  him  blind 
To  the    pathos    breathed    through    it. 

Tears  rose  in  his  eyes, 
And  a  hope  sweet  and  strange  in  his 

heart  seemed  to  rise. 
The  truth  which  he  saw  not  the  first 

time  he  read 
That   letter,  he   now  saw,  —  that  each 

word  betrayed 


The  love  which  the  writer  had  sought  to 

oonceaL 
His  love  was  received  not,  he  could  not 

but  feel, 
For  one  reason  alone,  —  that  his  love 

was  not  free. 
True  !  five  yet  he  was  not :   but  could 

he  not  be 
Free  erelong,  free  as  air  to  revoke  th;it 

farewell, 
And  to  sanction  his  own  hopes  ?  he  had 

but  to  tell  • 
The  truth  to  Matilda,  and  she  were  the 

first 
To  release  him  :  he  had  but  to  wait  at 

the  worst. 
Matilda's     relations    would      probably 

snatch 
Any  pretext,  with  pleasure,  to  break  off 

a  match 
In  which  they  had  yielded,  alone  at  the 

whim 

Of  their  spoiled  child,   a  languid  ap- 
proval to  him. 
She  herself,  careless  child  !  was  her  love 

for  him  aught 
Save  the  first  joyous  fancy  succeeding  the 

thought 
She  last  gave  to  her  doll  ?  was  she  able 

to  feel 
Such  a  love  as  the  love  he  divined  in 

Lucile  ? 
He  would  seek  her,  obtain  his  release, 

and,  oh  !  then, 

He  had  but  to  fly  to  Lucile,  and  again 
Claim  the  love  which  his  heart  would  be 

free  to  command. 
But  to  press  on  Lucile  any  claim  to  her 

hand, 

Or  even  to  seek,  or  to  see  her,  before 
He  could  say,  "  I  am  free  !  free,  Lucile, 

to  implore 
That  great  blessing  on  life  you  alone  can 

confer," 

'T  were  dishonor  in  him,  't  would  be  in- 
sult to  her. 
Thus  still  with  the  letter  outspread  on 

his  knee 

He  followed  so  fondly  his  own  revery, 
That  he  felt  not  the  angry  regard  of  a 

man 
Fixed  upon  him  ;    he  saw  not  a  face 

stem  and  wan 
Turned  towards  him  ;   he  heard  not  a 

footstep  that  passed 
And  repassed  the  lone  spot  where  he 

stood,  till  at  last 


HE   SAW,   ON    THE    BARE    HEATH    BEFORE    HIM,    THE    DuC   DE    LuVOIS  " 


LITCILE. 


55 


A  hoarse  voice  aroused  him. 

He  looked  up  and  saw, 
On  the  bare  heath  before  him,  the  Due 
de  Ltivois. 


With  aggressive  ironical  tones,   and  a 

look 
Of  concentrated  insolent  challenge,  the 

Duke 
Addressed  to  Lord  Alfred  some  sneering 

allusion 
To  "the  doubtless  sublime  reveries  his 

intrusion 
Had,    he  feared,    interrupted.      Milord 

would  do  better, 

He  fancied,  however,  to  fold  up  a  letter 
The  writing  of  which  was  too  well  known, 

in  fact, 
His  remark  as  he  passed  to  have  failed 

to  attract." 


It  was  obvious  to  Alfred  the  Frenchman 

was  bent 
Upon  picking  a  quarrel !  and  doubtless 

't  was  meant 
From  Mm  to  provoke  it  by  sneers  such 

as  these. 
A  moment  sufficed  his  quick  instinct  to 

seize 
The  position.     He  felt  that  he  could  not 

expose 
His  own  name,  or  Lucile's,  or  Matilda's, 

to  those 
Idle  tongues   that   would  bring  down 

upon  him  the  ban 
Of  the  world,  if  he  now  were  to  fight 

with  this  man. 
And  indeed,   when   he    looked  in   the 

Duke's  haggard  face, 
He  was  pained  by  the  change  there  he 

could  not  but  trace. 
And  he  almost  felt  pity. 

He  therefore  put  by 
Each  remark  from  the  Duke  with  some 

careless  reply, 
And  coldly,    but    courteously,    waving 

away 
The  ill-humor  the  Duke  seemed  resolved 

to  display, 

Rose,  and  turned,  with  a  stern  saluta- 
tion, aside. 

XIV. 

Then  the  Duke  put  himself  in  the  path, 
made  one  stride 


In  advance,  raised  a  hand,  fixed  upon 

him  his  eyes, 
And  said  .  .  . 

"  Hold,    Lord    Alfred  !     Away   with 

disguise  ! 
I  will  own  that  I  sought  you  a  moment 

ago, 
To  fix  on  you  a  quarrel.     I  still  can  do 

so 

Upon  any  excuse.     I  prefer  to  be  frank. 
I  admit  not  a  rival  in  fortune  or  rank 
To  the  hand  of  a  woman,  whatever  be 

hers 
Or  her  suitor's.     I  love  the  Comtesse  de 

Nevers. 
I  believed,  ere  you  crossed  me,  and  still 

have  the  right 
To  believe,   that  she  would  have  been 

mine.     To  her  sight 
You  return,  and  the  woman  is  suddenly 

changed. 
You  step  in  between  us  :  her  heart  is 

estranged. 
You  !  who  now  are  betrothed  to  another, 

I  know  : 
You  !  whose  name  with  Lucile's  nearly 

ten  years  ago 
"Was  coupled  by  ties  which  you  broke  : 

you  !  the  man 

I  reproached  on  the  day  our  acquaint- 
ance began  : 
You  !  that  left  her  so  lightly,  —  I  can- 

not  believe 
That  you  love,  as  I  love,  her ;  nor  can 

1  conceive 
You,  indeed,  have  the  right  so  to  love 

her. 

"Milord 
I  will  not  thus  tamely  concede,  at  your 

word, 
What,  a  few  days  ago,  I  .believed  to  be 

mine  ! 
I  shall  yet  persevere  :  I  shall  yet  be,  in 

fine, 

A  rival  you  dare  not  despise.    It  is  plain 
That  to  settle  this  contest  there  can  but 

remain 
One  way  —  need  I  say  what  it  is  ? " 

xv. 

Not  unmoved 

With  regretful  respect  for  the  earnest- 
ness proved 
By  the  speech  he  had  heard,  Alfred  Var- 

grave  replied 

In  words  which  he  trusted  might  ye* 
turn  aside 


56 


LUCILE. 


The  niiarrel  from  whirh  lie  felt  hound  to 

abstain, 
And,  with  stately  urbanity,  strove  to 

explain 
To  the  Duke  that  he  too  (a  fair  rival  at 

worst !) 
Had  not  been  accepted. 

XVI. 

"Accepted !  say  first 
Are  you  free  to  have  offered  ? " 

Lord  Alfred  was  mute. 


"Ah,  you  dare  not  reply  !"  cried  the 
Duke.  "  Why  dispute, 

Why  palter  with  me  ?  You  are  silent ! 
and  why  ? 

Because,  in  your  conscience,  you  cannot 
deny 

T  was  from  vanity,  wanton  and  cruel 
withal, 

And  the  wish  an  ascendency  lost  to  re- 
call, 

That  you  stepped  in  between  me  and 
her.  If,  milord, 

You  be  really  sincere,  I  ask  only  one 
word. 

Say  at  once  you  renounce  her.  At  once, 
on  my  part, 

I  will  ask  your  forgiveness  with  all  truth 
of  heart, 

And  there  can  be  no  quarrel  between  us. 
Say  on  !  " 

Lord  Alfred  grew  galled  and  impatient. 
This  tone 

Roused  a  strong  irritation  he  could  not 
repres^. 

"You  have  not  the  right,  sir,"  he  said, 
"and  still  less 

The  power,  to  make  terms  and  condi- 
tions with  me. 

I  refuse  to  reply." 


As  diviners  may  see 

Fates  they  cannot  avert  in  some  figure 
occult, 

He  foresaw  in  a  moment  each  evil  result 

Of  the  quarrel  now  imminent. 

There,  face  to  face, 

'Mid   the  ruins  and   tombs  of  a  long- 
perished  race, 

With,    for  witness,   the  stern  Autumn 
Sky  overhead, 


And  beneath  thorn,  unnoticed,  the  grave*, 

and  tin-  ilr.-i'l, 
Those  two  men  had  met,  as  it  were  on 

tin-  ridge 

Of  that  perilous,  narrow,  invisible  bridge 
Dividing  the  Past  from  the  Future,  so 

small 
That,  if  one  should  pass  over,  the  other 

must  fall. 

XIX. 

On  the  ear,  at  that  moment,  the  sound 

of  a  hoof, 
Urged  with  speed,  sharply  smote ;  and 

from  under  the  roof 
Of  the  forest  in  view,  where  the  skirts  of 

it  verged 
On  the  heath  where  they  stood,  at  full 

gallop  emerged 
A  horseman. 

A  guide  he  appeared,  by  the  sash 
Of  red  silk  round  the  waist,  and  the  long 

leathern  lash 
With   the  short  wooden  handle,  slung 

crosswise  behind 
The  short  jacket ;  the  loose  can  vastrouser, 

confined 
By  the  long  boots  ;  the  woollen  capote  ; 

and  the  rein, 
A  mere  hempen  cord  on  a  curb. 

Up  the  plain 
He  wheeled  his  horse,  white  with  the 

foam  on  his  flank, 
Leaped  the  rivulet  lightly,  turned  sharp 

from  the  bank, 
And,  approaching  the  Duke,  raised  his 

woollen  capote, 
Bowed  low  in  the  selle,  and  delivered  a 

note. 


The  two  stood  astonished.     The  Duke, 

with  a  gest 
Of  apology,  turned,  stretched  his  hand, 

and  possessed 
Himself  of  the  letter,  changed  color,  and 

tore 
The  page  open,  and  read. 

Ere  a  moment  was  o'er 
His  whole   aspect    changed.      A  light 

rose  to  his  eyes, 
And  a  smile  to  his  lips.     While  with 

startled  surprise 
Lord  Alfred  yet  watched  him,  he  turned 

on  his  heel, 
And   said  gayly.   "A  pressing  request 

from  Lucile  ! 


LUCILE. 


57 


You  are  quite  right,  Lord  Alfred  !  fair 
rivals  at  worst, 

Our  relative  place  may  perchance  be  re- 
versed. 

You  are  not  accepted  —  nor  free  to  pro- 
pose ! 

I,  perchance,  am  accepted  already  ;  who 
knows  ? 

I  had  warned  you,  milord,  I  should  still 
persevere. 

This  letter —  but  stay  !  you  can  read  it 
—  look  here  !  " 


It  was  now  Alfred's  turn  to  feel  roused 

and  enraged. 
But  Lucile  to  himself  was  not  pledged 

or  engaged 
By  aught  that  could  sanction  resentment. 

He  said 
Not  a  word,  but  turned  round,  took  the 

letter,  and  read  .  .  . 

The  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS  to  the  Due 
DE  Luvois. 

"  SAINT  SAVIOUR. 
"Your  letter,  which  followed  me  here, 

makes  me  stay 
Till  I  see  you  again.     With  no  moment's 

delay 
I  entreat,  I  conjure  you,  by  all  that  you 

feel 
Or  profess,  to  come  to  me  directly. 

"  LUCILE." 

XXII. 

"Your    letter!"     He   then  had    been 

writing  to  her  ! 
Coldly  shrugging  his  shoulders,    Lord 

Alfred  said,  "  Sir, 
Do  not  let  me  detain  you  ! " 

The  Duke  smiled  and  bowed  ; 
Placed  the  note  in  his  bosom  ;  addressed, 

half  aloud , 
A   few  words  to  the  messenger :  .  .  . 

"  Say  your  despatch 
Will  be  answered  ere  nightfall "  ;  then 

glanced  at  his  watch, 
And  turned  back  to  the  Baths. 

XXIII. 

Alfred  Vargrave  stood  still, 
Torn,  distracted  in  heart,  and  divided 

in  will. 
He  turned  to  Lncile's  farewell  letter  to 

him, 


And  read  over  her  words  ;  rising  tears 

made  them  dim  ; 
"  Doubt  is  over :  my  future  infixed  now," 

they  said, 
"My  course  is  decided."     Her  course? 

what !  to  wed 
With  this  insolent  rival !     With  that 

thought  there  shot 

Through  his  heart  an  acute  jealous  an- 
guish.    But  not 
Even  thus  could  his  clear  worldly  sense 

quite  excuse 
Those  strange  words  to  the  Duke.     She 

was  free  to  refuse 
Himself,  free  the  Duke  to  accept,  it  was 

true  : 
Even    then,    though,   this    eager    and 

strange  rendezvous 
How  imprudent !    To  some  unfrequented 

lone  inn, 
And  so  late  (for  the  night  was  about  to 

begin)  — 
She,    companionless   there  !  —  had   she 

bidden  that  man  ? 

A  fear,  vague,  and  formless,  and  horri- 
ble, ran 
Through  his  heart. 

XXIV. 

At  that  moment  he  looked  up,  and  saw, 
Riding  fast  through  the  forest,  the  Due 

de  Luvois, 
Who  waved  his  hand  to  him,  and  sped 

out  of  sight. 
The  day  was  descending.    He  felt  'twould 

be  night 
Ere  that  man  reached  Saint  Saviour. 


He  walked  on,  but  not 
Back  toward  Serchon  :   he  walked  on, 

but  knew  not  in  what 
Direction,  nor  yet  with  what  object,  in- 
deed, 

He  was  walking  ;  but  still  he  walked  on 
without  heed. 

XXVI. 

The  day  had  been  sullen  ;  but,  towards 

his  decline, 
The  sun  sent  a  stream  of  wild  light  up 

the  pine. 
Darkly  denting  the  red  light  rerealed  at 

its  back, 
The  old  ruined  abbey  rose  roofless  and 

black. 


58 


LUCILE. 


The  spring  that  yet  oozed  through  the 

moss-paven  floor 
Had  suggested,  no  doubt,  to  the  monks 

there,  of  yore, 
The  site  of  that  refuge  where,  back  to 

its  God 
How  many  a  heart,  now  at  rest  'neath 

the  si  Ml, 
Had  borne  from  the  world  all  the  same 

wild  unrest 
That  now  preyed  on  his  own  ! 

XXVII. 

By  the  thoughts  in  his  breast 
With  varying  impulse  divided  and  torn, 
He  traversed  the  scant  heath,  and 

reached  the  forlorn 
Autumn  woodland,  in  which  but  a  short 

while  ago 
He  had  seen  the  Duke  rapidly  enter; 

and  so 
He    too    entered.      The    light    waned 

around  him,  and  passed 
Into  darkness.     The  wrathful,  red  Oc- 
cident cast 

One  glare  of  vindictive  inquiry  behind, 
As  the  last  light  of  day  from  the  high 

wood  declined, 
And  the  great  forest  sighed  its  farewell 

to  the  beam, 
And  far  off  on  the  stillness  the  voice  of 

the  stream 
Fell  faintly. 


0  Nature,  how  fair  is  thy  face, 
And  how  light  is  thy  heart,  and  how 

friendless  thy  grace  ! 
Thou  false  mistress  of  man  !  thou  dost 

sport  with  him  lightly 
In  his  hours  of  ease  and  enjoyment ;  and 

brightly 
Dost  thou  smile  to  his  smile  ;  to  his  joys 

thou  inclinest, 
But  his  sorrows,   thou   knowest   them 

not,  nor  divinest. 
While  he  woos,  thou  art  wanton  ;   thou 

Id  test  him  love  thee  ; 
But  thou  art  not  his  friend,  for  his  grief 

cannot  move  thee  ; 
And  at  last,  when  he  sickens  and  dies, 

what  dost  thou  ? 
All  as  gay  are  thy  garments,  as  careless 

thy  brow, 
Anil  thou  laughest  and  toyest  with  any 

new  comer, 


Not  a  tear  more  for  winter,  a  smile  les» 

for  summer  ! 
Hast   thou  never  an  anguish  to  heave 

the  heart  under 
That  fair  breast  of  thine,  0  thou  feminine 

wonder ! 
For  all  those  —  the  young,  and  the  fair, 

and  the  strong, 
Who  have  loved  thee,  and  lived  with 

thee  gayly  and  long, 
And  who  now  on  thy  bosom  lie  dead  ? 

and  their  deeds 
And  their  days  are  forgotten  !     O,  hast 

thou  no  weeds 
And  not  one  year  of  mourning,  —  one  out 

of  the  many 
That  deck  thy  new  bridals  forever,  — 

nor  any 
Regrets  for  thy  lost  loves,  concealed  from 

the  new, 
0   thou   widow  of  earth's  generations  ? 

Goto! 
If  the  sea  and  the  night  wind  know  aught 

of  these  things, 
They  do  not  reveal  it.     We  are  not  thy 

kings. 


CANTO  VI. 


"  THE  huntsman  has  ridden  too  far  on 

the  chase, 
And  eldrich,  and  eerie,  and  strange  is 

the  place  ! 

The  castle  betokens  a  date  long  gone  by. 
He  crosses  the  court-yard  with  curious 

eye  : 
He  wanders  from  chamber  to  chamber, 

and  yet 

From  strangeness  to  strangeness  his  foot- 
steps are  set  ; 
And  the  whole  place  grows  wilder  and 

wilder,  and  less 
Like  aught  seen  l)efore.     Each  in  obsolete 

dress, 
Strange  portraits  regard  him  with  looks 

of  surprise, 
Strange  forms  from  the  arras  start  forth 

to  his  eyes ; 
Strange  epigraphs,  blazoned,  burn  out 

of  the  wall : 

The  spell  of  a  wizard  is  over  it  all. 
In  her  chamber,  enchanted,  the  Princess 

is  sleeping 


LUCILE. 


59 


The  sleep  which  for  centuries   she  has 

been  keeping. 
If  she  smile  in  her  sleep,  it  must  be  to 

some  lover 
Whose  lost  golden  locks  the  long  grasses 

now  cover : 
If  she  moan  in  her  dream,  it  must  be  to 

deplore 
Some  grief  which  the  world  cares  to  hear 

of  no  more. 
But  how  fair  is  her  forehead,  how  calm 

seems  her  cheek  ! 
And  how  sweet  must  that  voice  be,  if 

once  she  would  speak  ! 
He  looks  and  he  loves  her ;  but  knows 

he  (not  he  !) 

The  clew  to  unravel  this  old  mystery  ? 
And  he  stoops  to  those  shut  lips.     The 

shapes  on  the  wall, 
The  mute  men  in  armor  around  him, 

and  all 

The  weird  figures  frown,  as  though  striv- 
ing to  say, 
'  Holt  I  invade  not  the  Past,  reckless  child 

of  To-day  ! 
And  give  not,  0  madman!  the  heart  in 

thy  breast 
To  a  phantom,  the  soul  of  whose  sense  is 


By  an  Age  not  thine  own  I ' 

"  But  unconscious  is  he, 
And  he  heeds  not  the  warning,  he  cares 

not  to  see 
Aught  but  one  form  before  him  ! 

"  Rash,  wild  words  are  o'er  ; 
And  the  vision  is  vanished  from  sight 

evermore  ! 
And  the  gray  morning  sees,  as  it  drearily 

moves 
O'er  a  land   long  deserted,   a  madman 

that  roves 
Through  a  ruin,  and  seeks  to  recapture 

a  dream. 
Lost  to  life  and  its  uses,  withdrawn  from 

the  scheme 
Of  man's  waking  existence,  he  wanders 

apart." 
And  this  is    an    old  fairy-tale  of  the 

heart. 
It  is  told  in   all  lands,  in  a  different 

tongue  ; 
Told  with  tears  by  the  old,  heard  with 

smiles  by  the  young. 
And  the  tale  to  each  heart  unto  which 

it  is  known 
Has  a  different  sense.     It   has  puzzled 

my  owjj. 


Eugene  de  Luvois  was  a  man  who,  i» 
part 

From  strong  physical  health,  and  that 
vigor  of  heart 

Which  physical  health  gives,  and  partly, 
perchance, 

From  a  generous  vanity  native  to  France, 

With  the   heart   of  a  hunter,  whatever 
the  quarry, 

Pursued  it,  too  hotly  impatient  to  tarry 

Or  turn,  till  he  took  it.     His  trophies 
were  trifles : 

But  trifler  he  was  not.     When  rose-leaves 
it  rifles, 

No  less  than  when  oak-trees  it  ruins,  the 
wind 

Its    pleasure    pursues  with    impetuous 
mind. 

Both  Eugene  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred 
had  been 

Men   of  pleasure  :   but  men's  pleasant 
vices,  which,  seen 

Floating  faint,  in  the  sunshine  of  Alfred's 
soft  mood, 

Seemed  amiable  foibles,  by  Luvois  pur- 
sued 

With  impetuous  passion,  seemed  semi- 
Satanic. 

Half  pleased  you  see  brooks  play  with 
'  pebbles  ;  in  panic 

You  watch  them  whirled  down  by  the 
torrent. 

In  truth, 

To  the  sacred  political  creed  of  his  youth 

The  century  which  he  was  born  to  de- 
nied 

All  realization.     Its  generous  pride 

To  degenerate  protest  on  all  things  was 
sunk  ; 

Its  principles  each  to  a  prejudice  shrunk. 

Down   the   path  of  a  life  that  led  no- 
where he  trod, 

Where  his  whims  were  his  guides,  and 
his  will  was  his  god, 

And  his  pastime  his  purpose. 

From  boyhood  possessed 

Of  inherited  wealth,  he  had  learned  to 
invest 

Both  his  wealth  and  those  passions  wealth 
frees  from  the  cage 

Which  penury  locks,  in  each  vice  of  an 
age 

All  the  virtues  of  which,  by  the  creed 
he  revered, 

Were  to  him  iUegitimato. 

Thus,  he  appeare4 


60 


LUCILE. 


To  the  world  what  the  world  chose  to 
have  him  appear,  — 

The    frivolous    tyrant    of    Fashion,    a 
mere 

Reformer  in  coats,  cards,  and  carriages  ! 
Still 

*T  was  this  vigor  of  nature,  and  tension 
of  will, 

That  found  for  the  first  time  — perchance 
for  the  last  — 

In  Lucile  what  they  lacked  yet  to  free 
from  the  Past, 

Force,  and  faith,  in  the  Future. 

And  so,  in  his  mind, 

To  the  anguish  of  losing  the  woman  was 
joined 

The  terror  of  missing  his  life's  destina- 
tion, 

Which  in  her  had  its  mystical   repre- 
sentation. 


III. 

And  truly,  the  thought  of  it,  scaring 
him,  passed 

O'er  his  heart,  while  he  now  through  the 
twilight  rode  fast. 

As  a  shade  from  the  wing  of  some  great 
bird  obscene 

In  a  wide  silent  land  may  be  suddenly 
seen, 

Darkening  over  the  sands,  where  it 
startles  and  scares 

Some  traveller  strayed  in  the  waste  un- 
awares, 

So  that  thought  more  than  once  darkened 
over  his  heart 

For  a  moment,  and  rapidly  seemed  to 
depart. 

Fast  and  furious  he  rode  through  the 
thickets  which  rose 

Up  the  shaggy  hillside  :  and  the  quarrel- 
ling crows 

Clanged  above  him,  and  clustering  down 
the  dim  air 

Dropped  into  the  dark  woods.  By  fits 
here  and  there 

Shepherd  fires  faintly  gleamed  from  the 

valleys.  0,  how- 
He  envied  the  wings  of  each  wild  bird, 
as  now 

He  urged  the  steed  over  the  dizzy  as- 
cent 

Of  the  mountain  !  Behind  him  a  mur- 
mur was  sent 

From  the  torrent,  —  before  him  a  sound 
from  the  tracts 


Of  the  woodlands  that  waved  o'er  the 

wild  cataracts, 
And  the   loose  earth  and   loose  stones 

rolled  momently  down 
From  the  hoofs  of  his  steed  to  abysses 

unknown. 
The  red  day  had  fallen  beneath  the  black 

woods, 
And  the  Powers  of  the  night  tli rough 

the  vast  solitudes 
Walked  abroad  and  conversed  with  each 

other.     The  trees 

Were  in  sound  and  in  motion,  and  mut- 
tered like  seas 

In  Elfland.     The  road  through  the  for- 
est was  hollowed. 
On   he  sped  through  the  darkness,  as 

though  he  were  followed 
Fast,  fast  by  the  Erl  King  ! 

The  wild  wizard-work 
Of  the  forest  at  last  opened  sharp,  o'er 

the  fork 
Of  a  savage  ravine,  and  behind  the  black 

stems 
Of  the  last  trees,  whose  leaves  in  the 

light  gleamed  like  gems, 
Broke  the  broad  moon  above  the  volu- 
minous 

Rock-chaos,  —  the  Hecate  of  that  Tar- 
tarus ! 
With  his  horse  reeking  white,  he  at  last 

reached  the  door 
Of  a  small  mountain  inn,  on  the  brow 

of  a  hoar 
Craggy   promontory,    o'er   a   fissure   as 

grim, 
Through    which,    ever    roaring,    there 

leaped  o'er  the  limb 
Of  the  rent  rock  a  torrent  of  water,  from 

sight, 
Into  pools  that  were  feeding  the  roots 

of  the  night. 

A  balcony  hung  o'er  the  water.     Above 
In    a    glimmering    casement    a    shade 

seemed  to  move. 
At  the  door  the  old  negress  was  nodding 

her  head 
As  he  reached  it.     "  My  mistress  awaits 

you,"  she  said. 
And  up  the  rude  stairway  of  creaking 

pine  rafter 
He  followed  her  silent.     A  few  moments 

after, 
His  heart  almost  stunned  him,  his  head 

seemed  to  reel, 
For  a  door  closed  —  Luvois  was  alone 

with  Lucile. 


LUCILE. 


61 


In  a  gray  travelling  dress,  her  dark  hair 

unconfined 
Streaming  o'er  it,  and  tossed  now  and 

then  by  the  wind 
From  the  lattice,  that  waved  the  dull 

flame  in  a  spire 
From  a  brass  lamp  before  her,  —  a  faint 

hectic  fire 
On  her  cheek,  to  her  eyes  lent  the  lustre 

of  fever. 
They  seemed  to  have  wept  themselves 

wider  than  ever, 

Those  dark  eyes,  —  so  dark  and  so  deep  ! 

"You  relent? 

And  your  plans  have  been  changed  by 

the  letter  I  sent  ? " 
There  his  voice  sank,  borne  down  by  a 

strong  inward  strife. 

LUCILE. 

Your  letter  !  yes,  Duke.     For  it  threat- 
ens man's  life,  — 
Woman's  honor. 

Luvois. 
The  last,  madam,  not ! 

LUCILE. 

Both.     I  glance 

At  your  own  words  ;  blush,  son  of  the 
knighthood  of  France, 

As  I  read  them  !     You  say  in  this  let- 
ter .  .  . 

"  I know 

Why  now  you  refuse  me  ;  't  is  (is  it  not 
so?) 

For  the  man  who  has  trifled  before,  wan- 
tonly, 

And  now  trifles  again  with  the  heart  you 
deny 

To  myself.     But  he  shall  not !    By  man's 
last  wild  law, 

I  will  seize  on  tJie  right  (the  right,  Due 
de  Luvois !) 

To  avenge  for  you,  woman,  the  past,  and 
to  give 

To  the  future  its  freedom,.     That  man 
shall  not  live 

To  make  you  as  wretched  as  you  have 
made  me  !  " 

Luvois. 
Well,  madam,  in  those  words  what  word 

do  you  see 
That  threatens  the  honor  of  woman  ? 


LUCILE. 

See  ! .  .  .  what, 
What  word,  do  you  ask  I    Every  word  ! 

would  you  not, 
Had  I  taken  your  hand  thus,  have  felt 

that  your  name 
Was  soiled  and  dishonored  by  more  than 

mere  shame 
If  the  woman  that  bore  it  had  first  been 

the  cause 
Of  the  crime  which   in  these  words  i.s 

menaced  ?    You  pause  ! 
Woman's  honor,  you  ask  ?     Is  there,  sir, 

no  dishonor 
In  the  smile  of  a  woman,  when  men, 

gazing  on  her, 
Can  shudder,  and  say,  "In  that  smile 

is  a  grave  "  ? 
No  !  you  can  have  no  cause,  Duke,  for 

no  right  you  have 

In  the  contest  you  menace.     That  con- 
test but  draws 
Every  right  into  ruin.     By  all  human 

laws 

Of  man's  heart  I  forbid  it,  by  all  sancti- 
ties 
Of  man's  social  honor  ! 

The  Duke  drooped  his  eyes. 
"  I  obey  you,"  he  said,  "but  let  woman 

beware 
How  she  plays  fast  and  loose  thus  with 

human  despair, 
And  the  storm  in  man's  heart.     Madam, 

yours  was  the  right, 
When  you  saw  that  I  hoped,  to  extinguish 

hope  quite, 
But  you  should  from  the  first  have  done 

this,  for  I  feel 
That  you  knew  from  the  first  that  I 

loved  you." 

Lucile 

This  sudden  reproach  seemed  to  startle. 
She  raised 
A  slow,  wistful  regard  to  his  features, 

and  gazed 
On  them  silent  awhile.     His  own  looks 

were  downcast. 
Through  her  heart,  whence  its  first  wild 

alarm  was  now  passed, 
Pity  crept,  and  perchance  o'er  her  con- 
science a  tear, 
Falling  softly,  awoke  it. 

However  severe, 
Were   they  unjust,    these   sudden   up- 

braidings,  to  her  ? 
Had  she  lightly  misconstrued  this  man's 

character, 


62 


LUCILE. 


KTiich  had  seemed,  oven  when  most  im- 

p;issioned  it  seemed, 
Too  self-conscious  to  lose  all  in  love  ? 

llilil  she  deemed 

That  this  airy,  gay,  insolent  man  of  the 

world, 
So  proud  of  the  place  the  world  gave 

him,  held  furled 
In   his   bosom   no  passion   which   once 

shaken  wide 
Might  tug,  till   it  snapped,  that  erect 

lofty  pride  ? 
Were  those  elements  in  him,  which  once 

roused  to  strife 
Overthrow  a  whole;  nature,  and  change 

a  whole  life  ? 
There  are  two  kinds  of  strength.     One, 

the  strength  of  the  river 
Which   through    continents  pushes  its 

pathway  forever 
To  fling  its  fond  heart  in  the  sea  ;  if  it 

lose 
This,  the  aim  of  its  life,  it  is  lost  to  its 

use, 
It  goes  mad,  is  diffused  into  deluge,  and 

dies. 
The  other,  the  strength  of  the  sea;  which 

supplies 
Its  deep  life  from  mysterious  sources,  and 

draws 

The  river's  life  into  its  own  life,  by  laws 
Which  it  heeds  not.     The  difference  in 

each  case  is  this  : 

The  river  is  lost,  if  the  ocean  it  miss  ; 
If  the  sea  miss  the  river,  what  matter  ? 

The  sea 
Is  the  sea  still,  forever.     Its  deep  heart 

will  be 
Self-sufficing,  unconscious  of  loss  as  of 

yore  ; 
Its   sources   are   infinite ;    still  to  the 

shore, 

With  no  diminution  of  pride,  it  will  say, 
"  I  am  here  ;  I,  the  sea !  stand  aside, 

and  make  way  !  " 
Was   his   love,    then,   the  love  of  the 

river  ?  and  she, 
Had  she  taken  that  love  for  the  love  of 

the  sea  ? 

v. 

At  that  thought,  from  her  aspect  what- 
ever had  been 

Stern  or  haughty  departed  ;  and,  hum- 
blcd  iii  mien, 

She  approached  him,  and  brokenly  mur- 
mured, as  though 


To  herself   more    than  him,    "Was  1 

\\  PIN;;  >.  is  it  so? 
Hear  me,  Duke  !   you  must  feel  that, 

whatever  you  deem 
Your  right  to  reproach  me  in  this,  your 

esteem 
I  may  claim  on  one  ground,  —  I  at  least 

inn  sincere. 
You  say  that  to  me  from  the  first  it  was 

clear 
That  you  loved  me.     But  what  if  this 

knowledge  were  known 
At  a  moment  in  life  when  I  felt  most 

alone, 
And  least  able  to  be  so  ?    A  moment,  in 

fact, 
When  I  strove  from  one  haunting  regret 

to  retract 
And  emancipate  life,  and  once  more  to 

fulfil 
Woman's  destinies,  duties,  and  hopes  ? 

would  you  still 

So  bitterly  blame  me,  Eugene  de  Luvois, 
If  I  hoj>ed  to  see  all  this,  or  deemed  that 

I  saw 
For  a  moment  the  promise  of  this,  in  the 

plighted 

Affection  of  one  who,  in  nature,  united 
So  much  that  from  others  affection  might 

claim, 
If  only   affection    were  free?     Do   you 

blame 
The  hope  of  that  moment  ?     I  deemed 

my  heart  free 
From  all,  saving  sorrow.    I  deemed  that 

in  me 
There  was  yet  strength  to  mould  it  once 

more  to  my  will, 
To  uplift  it  once  more  to  my  hope.     Do 

you  still 
Blame  me,  Duke,  that  I  did  not  then 

bid  you  refrain 
From  hope  ?  alas  !  I  too  then  hoped  ! " 

Luvois. 

0,  again, 
Yet  again,  say  that  thrice-blessed  word  1 

say,  Lucile, 
That  you  then  deigned  to  hope  — 

LUCILE. 

!  to  hope  I  could  feel, 
And  could  give   to   you,   that   without 

which,  all  else  given 
Were  but  to  deceive,  and  to  injure  you 
even  ;  — 


LUCILE. 


63 


A  heart  free  from  thoughts  of  another. 

Say,  then, 
Do  you  blame  that  one  hope  ? 

Ltrvois. 
0  Lucile  ! 

"Say  again," 
She  resumed,  gazing  down,    and  with 

faltering  tone, 
"  Do  you  blame  me  that,  when  I  at  last 

had  to  own 

To  my  heart  that  the  hope  it  had  cher- 
ished was  o'er, 
And  forever,  I  said  to  you  then,  '  Hope 

no  more '  ? 
I  myself  hoped  no  more  !  " 

With  but  ill-suppressed  wrath 
The  Duke  answered  ..."  What,  then  ! 

he  recrosses  your  path 
This  man,  and  you  have  but  to  see  him, 

despite 
Of  his  troth  to  another,   to  take  back 

that  light 
Worthless  heart  to  your  own,  which  he 

wronged  years  ago  !  " 
Lucile  faintly,  brokenly  murmured,  .  .  . 

"No  !  no  ! 

'T  is  not  that  —  but  alas  !  —  but  I  can- 
not conceal 
That  I  have  not  forgotten  the  past  — 

but  I  feel 
That  I  cannot  accept  all  these  gifts  on 

your  part,  — 
In  return  for  what  .  .  .  ah,  Duke,  what 

is  it  ?  ...  a  heart 
Which  is  only  a  ruin  !  " 

With  words  warm  and  wild, 
"Though  a  ruin  it  be,  trust  me  yet  to 

rebuild 
And  restore  it,"  Luvois  cried  ;  "though 

ruined  it  be, 
Since  so  dear  is  that  ruin,  ah,  yield  it 

to  me  ! " 
He  approached  her.     She  shrank  back. 

The  grief  in  her  eyes 
Answered,  "  No  !  " 

An  emotion  more  fierce  seemed  to  rise 
And  to  break  into  flame,  as  though  fired 

by  the  light 
Of  that  look,  in  his  heart.    He  exclaimed, 

"Am  I  right? 
You  reject  me  !  accept  him  ?  " 

"I  have  not  done  so," 
She  said  firmly.     He  hoarsely  resumed, 

"Not  yet,  —  no  ! 


But  can  you  with  accents  as  firm  promise 

me 
That  you  will  not  accept  him  ? " 

"  Accept  ?     Is  he  free  ? 
Free  to  offer  ? "  she  said. 

"You  evade  me,  Lucile," 
He  replied;   "ah,   you  will  not  avow 

what  you  feel ! 
He  might  make  himself  free  ?    0,  you 

blush,  —  turn  away  ! 
Dare  you  openly  look  in  my  face,  lady, 

say! 
While  you  deign  to  reply  to  one  question 

from  me  ? 
I  may  hope  not,  you  tell  me  :  but  tell 

me,  may  he  ? 
What !    silent  ?     I   alter   my  question. 

If  quite 
Freed  in  faith  from  this  troth,  might  he 

hope  then  ?" 

"He  might," 
She  said  softly. 

VI. 

Those  two   whispered  words,   in  his 

breast, 
As  he  heard  them,  in  one  maddening 

moment  releast 
All  that 's  evil  and  fierce  in  man's  nature, 

to  crush 
And  extinguish  in  man  all  that 's  good. 

In  the  rush 
Of  wild  jealousy,  all  the  fierce  passions 

that  wasfe 
And    darken    and   devastate    intellect, 

chased 
From  its  realm  human  reason.    The  wild 

animal 
In  the  bosom  of  man  was  set  free.     And 

of  all 

Human  passions  the  fiercest,  fierce  jeal- 
ousy, fierce 
As  the  fire,   and  more  wild  than  the 

whirlwind,  to  pierce 
And  to  rend,  rushed  upon  him  ;   fierce 

jealousy,  swelled 
By  all  passions  bred  from  it,  and  ever 

impelled 
To  involve  all  things  else  in  the  anguish 

within  it, 
And  on  others  inflict  its  own  pangs  ! 

At  that  minute 
What  passed  through   his   mind,   who 

shall  say  ?  who  may  tell 
The  dark  thoughts  of  man's  heart,  which 

the  red  glare  of  hell 
Can  illumine  alone  ? 


64 


LUCILE. 


Hr  stared  wildly  around 

That  lone  place,  so  lonely  !  That  silence  ! 
no  sound 

Reached  that  room,  through  tin-  dark 
evening  air,  save  tin-  drear 

Drip  and  roar  of  the  cataract  ceaseless 
ami  near  ! 

It  was  midnight  all  round  on  the  weird 
silent  weather ; 

Deep  midnight  in  him  !  They  two,  — 
lone  and  together. 

Himself,  and  that  woman  defenceless 
before  him  ! 

The  triumph  and  bliss  of  his  rival  flashed 
o'er  him. 

The  abyss  of  his  own  black  despair  seemed 
to  ope 

At  his  feet,  with  that  awful  exclusion  of 
hope 

Which  Dante  read  over  the  city  of  doom. 

All  the  Tarquin  passed  iiito  his  soul  in 
the  gloom, 

And,  uttering  words  he  dared  never  re- 
call, 

Words  of  insult  and  menace,  he  thun- 
dered down  all 

The  brewed  storm-cloud  within  him : 
its  flashes  scorched  blind 

His  own  senses.  His  spirit  was  driven 
on  the  wind 

Of  a  reckless  emotion  beyond  his  con- 
trol; 

A  torrent  seemed  loosened  within  him. 
His  soul 

Surged  up  from  that  caldron  of  passion 
that  hissed 

And  seethed  in  his  heart. 

VII. 

He  had  thrown,  and  had,  missed 
His  last  stake. 


For,  transfigured,  she  rose  from  the 

place 
Where   he   rested   o'erawed  :    a  saint's 

scorn  on  her  face  ; 
Such  a  dread  vade  retro  was  written  in 

light 
On  her  forehead,  the  fiend  would  himself, 

at  that  sight, 
Have  sunk  back  abashed  to  perdition. 

I  know 
If  Lucretia  at  Tarquin   but  once  had 

looked  so, 

She  had  needed  no  dagger  next  morning. 

She  rose 


And  .swept  to  the  door,  like  that  phan- 

tum  tlie  snows 
Feel  at  nightfall  sweep  o'er  them,  when 

daylight  is  gone, 

Aii'I  I  'aueaxti.s  is  with  the  moon  all  alone. 
There  she  paused  ;  ;iiul,  as  though  IVom 

immeasurable, 

Insurpassable  distance,  she  murmured  — 

"  Farewell  ! 

We,  alas!   have   mistaken    ea<-h   other. 

Once  more 

Illusion,  to-night,  in  my  lifetime'  i 
Due  de  Luvoi.s,  adieu  !  " 

From  the  heart-break  ing  gloom 
Of  that  vacant,  reproachful,  and  de 

room, 
He  felt  she  was  gone,  —  gone  forever ! 

IX. 

No  word, 
The  sharpest  that  ever  was  edged  like 

a  sword, 
Could  have  pierced  to  his  heart  with 

such  keen  accusation 
As  the   silence,    the   sudden    profound 

isolation, 
In  which  he  remained. 

"  0,  return  ;  I  repent !  " 
He   exclaimed  ;  but   no  sound  through 

the  stillness  was  sent, 
Save  the  roar  of  the  water,  in  answer  to 

him, 
And  the  bee  tie  that,  sleeping,  yethummed 

her  night-hymn  : 
An  indistinct  anthem,  that  troubled  the 

air 

With  a  searching,  and  wistful,  and  ques- 
tioning prayer. 
"Return,"  sung  the  wandering  insect. 

The  roar 
Of  the  waters    replied,    "Nevermore  ! 

nevermore  !  ' 
He  walked  to  the  window.     The  spray 

on  his  brow 
Was  flung  cold  from  the  whirlpools  of 

water  below  ; 
The  frail  wooden  balcony  shook  in  the 

sound 
Of  the  torrent.     The  mountains  gloomed 

sullenly  round. 
A  candle  one  ray  from  a  closed  casement 

flung. 
O'er  the  dim  balustrade  all  bewildered 

he  huiif,', 

Vaguely  watching  the  broken  and  shim- 
mering blink 


"  SHE  ROSE,  AND  SWEPT  TO  THE  DOOR. 


LUCILE. 


65 


Of  the  stars  on  the  veering  and  vitreous 
brink 

Of  that  snake-like  prone  column  of  wa- 
ter ;  and  listing 

Aloof  o'er  the  languors  of  air  the  persist- 
ing 

Sharp  horn  of  the  gray  gnat.  Before  he 
relinquished 

His  unconscious  employment,  that  light 
was  extinguished. 

Wheels,  at  last,  from  the  inn  door 
aroused  him.  He  ran 

Down  the  stairs  ;  reached  the  door  — 
just  to  see  her  depart. 

Down  the  mountain  the  carriage  was 
speeding. 

x. 

His  heart 
Pealed  the  knell  of  its  last  hope.     He 

rushed  on  ;  but  whither 
He  knew  not  —  on,  into  the  dark  cloudy 

weather  — • 
The    midnight  —  the    mountains  —  on, 

over  the  shelf 
Of  the  precipice  —  on,  still  —  away  from 

himself ! 
Till,  exhausted,  he  sank  'mid  the  dead 

leaves  and  moss 

At  the  mouth  of  the  forest.     A  glim- 
mering cross 
Of  gray  stone  stood  for  prayer  by  the 

woodside.     He  sank 
Prayerless,  powerless,  down  at  its  base, 

'mid  the  dank 
Weeds  and  grasses  ;  his  face  hid  amongst 

them.     He  knew 
That  the  night  had  divided  his  whole 

life  in  two. 

Behind  him  a  Past  that  was  over  for- 
ever ; 

Before  him  a  Future  devoid  of  endeavor 
And  purpose.     He  felt  a  remorse  for  the 

one, 
Of  the  other  a  fear.     What  remained  to 

be  done  ? 
Whither  now  should  he  turn  ?    Turn 

again,  as  before, 

To  his  old  easy,  careless  existence  of  yore 
He  could  not.     He  felt  that  for  better 

or  worse 
A  change  had  passed  o'er  him  ;  an  angry 

remorse 
Of  his  own  frantic  failure  and  error  had 

marred 
Such    a    refuge    forever.      The    future 

seemed  barred 
5 


By  the  corpse  of  a  dead  hope  o'er  which 

he  -must  tread 
To  attain   it.     Life's  wilderness  round 

him  was  spread. 
What  clew  there  to  cling  by  ? 

He  clung  by  a  name 
To  a  dynasty  fallen  forever.     He  came 
Of  an  old  princely  house,  true  through 

change  to  the  race 
And  the  sword  of  Saint  Louis,  —  a  faith 

*t  were  disgrace 
To  relinquish,    and  folly  to  live   for ! 

Nor  less 
Was  his  ancient  religion  (once  potent  to 

bless 
Or  to  ban  ;  and  the  crozier  his  ancestors 

kneeled 
To   adore,    when  they  fought   for   the 

Cross,  in  hard  field, 
With    the    Crescent)    become,    ere    it 

reached  him,  tradition  ; 
A  mere  faded  badge  of  a  social  posi- 
tion ; 

A  thing  to  retain  and  say  nothing  about, 
Lest,  if  used,  it  should  draw  degradation 

from  doubt. 
Thus,  the  first  time  he  sought  them,  the 

creeds  of  his  youth 
Wholly  failed  the  strong  needs  of  his 

manhood,  in  truth  ! 

And  beyond  them,  what  region  of  ref- 
uge ?  what  field 
For  employment,  this  civilized  age,  did 

it  yield, 
In  that  civilized  land  ?  or  to  thought  ? 

or  to  action  ? 
Blind  deliriums,  bewildered  and  endless 

distraction  ! 

Not  even  a  desert,  not  even  the  cell 
Of  a  hermit  to  flee  to,  wherein  he  might 

quell 
The  wild  devil-instincts  which  now,  un- 

represt, 
Ran  riot  through  that  ruined  world  in 

his  breast. 


So  he  lay  there,  like  Lucifer,  fresh  from 

the  sight 
Of  a  heaven  scaled  and  lost ;  in  the  wide 

arms  of  night 
O'er  the  howling  abysses  of  nothingness  ! 

There 
As   he    lay,    Natxire's   deep   voice    was 

teaching  him  prayer ; 
But  what  had  he  to  pray  to  ? 

The  winds  in  the  woods 


66 


LUCILE. 


The  voices  abroad  o'er  those  vast  soli- 
tudes, 
Were  in  commune  all  round  with  the 

invisible  Tower 
That  \v;ilkfd  the  dim  world  by  Himself 

at  that  hour. 
But   their   language    he   had   not    yet 

l«-;mied  —  in  despite' 
Of  the  much  he  had  learned  —  or  for- 
gotten it  quite, 
With   its  once  native  accents.      Alas  ! 

what  had  he 

To  add  to  that  deep-toned  sublime  sym- 
phony 
Of  thanksgiving  ?  .  .  .  A  fiery  finger  was 

still 

Scorching  into  his  heart  some  dread  sen- 
tence.    His  will, 
Like  a  wind  that  is  put  to  no  purpose, 

was  wild 
At  its  work  of  destruction  within  him. 

The  child 
Of  an  infidel  age,  he  had  been  his  own 

god, 
His  own  devil. 

He  sat  on  the  damp  mountain  sod, 

And  stared  sullenly  up  at  the  dark  sky. 

The  clouds 

Had  heaped  themselves  over  the  bare 

west  in  crowds 
Of  misshapen,  incongruous  portents.     A 

green 
Streak  of  dreary,  cold,  luminous  ether, 

between 
The  base  of  their  black  barricades,  and 

the  ridge 
Of  the  grim  world,  gleamed  ghastly,  as 

under  some  bridge, 
Cyclop-si2ed,    in   a  city  of  ruins   o'er- 

thrown 

I'.y  >icges  forgotten,  some  river,  unknown 
And  unnamed,  widens  on  into  desolate 

lands. 
While  he  gazed,  that  cloud-city  invisible 

hands 
Dismantled    and    rent ;    and    revealed, 

through  a  loop 
In  the  breached  dark,  the  blemished  and 

half-broken  hoop 
Of  the  moon,  which  soon  silently  sank  ; 

and  anon 
The   whole    supernatural    pageant    was 

gone. 
The  wide  night,  discomforted,  conscious 

of  loss, 
Darkened  round  him.     One  object  alone 

—  that  gray  cross  — • 


Glimmered  faint  on  the  dark.     Gazing 

up,  he  descried 
Through  the  void  air,  its  desolate  arms 

outstretched  wide, 
As  though  to  embrace  him. 

He  turned  from  the  sight, 
Set  his  face  to  the  darkness,  and  fled. 


When  the  light 
Of  the  dawn  grayly  flickered  and  glared 

on  the  spent 
Wearied  ends  of  the  night,  like  a  hope 

that  is  sent 
To  the  need  of  some  grief  when  its  need 

is  the  sorest, 
He  was  sullenly  riding  across  the  dark 

forest 
Toward  Serchon. 

Thus  riding,  with  eyes  of  defiance 
Set  against  the  young  day,  as  disclaim- 
ing alliance 
With  aught  that  the  day  brings  to  man, 

he  perceived 
Faintly,    suddenly,    fleetingly,   through 

the  damp-leaved 
Autumn  branches  that  put  forth  gaunt 

arms  on  his  way, 
The  face  of  a  man  pale  and  wistful,  and 

gray 

With  the  gray  glare  of  morning.     Eu- 
gene de  Luvois, 
With  the  sense  of  a  strange  second-sight, 

when  he  saw 
That  phantom-like  face,  could  at  once 

recognize, 
By  the  sole  instinct  now  left  to  guide 

him,  the  eyes 
Of  his  rival,  though  fleeting  the  vision 

and  dim, 
With  a  stern  sad  inquiry  fixed  keenly 

on  him. 
And,  to  meet  it,  a  lie  leaped  at  once  to 

his  own  ; 
A  lie  born  of  that  lying  darkness  now 

grown 
Over  all  in  his  nature  !     He  answered 

that  gaze 
With  a  look  which,  if  ever  a  man's  look 

conveys 
More  intensely  than  words  what  a  man 

means,  conveyed 

Beyond  doubt  in  its  smile  an  announce- 
ment which  said, 
"  T  //"!•<•  ti-iimtphfd.     The  qur.ifinn  your 

eyes  inuilil  imply 
Comes  too  late,  Alfred  Vargravc!" 


LUCILE. 


67 


And  so  he  rode  by, 
And  rode  on,  and  rode  gayly,  and  rode 

out  of  sight, 
Learing  that  look  behind  him  to  rankle 

and  bite. 

XIII. 

And  it  bit,  and  it  rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord  Alfred,  scarce  knowing, 
Or  choosing,  or  heeding  the  way  he  was 

going, 
By  one  wild  hope  impelled,  by  one  wild 

fear  pursued, 
And  led  by  one  instinct,  which  seemed 

to  exclude 
From  his  mind  every  human  sensation, 

save  one  — 
The    torture    of    doubt  —  had    strayed 

moodily  on, 

Down  the  highway  deserted,  that  even- 
ing in  which 
With  the  Duke  he  had  parted  ;  strayed 

on,  through  the  rich 
Haze   of   sunset,    or   into   the  gradual 

night, 
Which  darkened,   unnoticed,  the  land 

from  his  sight, 
Toward    Saint    Saviour ;    nor    did   the 

changed  aspect  of  all 
The  wild   scenery  round  him  avail  to 

recall 
To  his  senses  their  normal  perceptions, 

until, 
As  he  stood  on  the  black  shaggy  brow 

of  the  hill 
At  the  mouth  of  the  forest,  the  moon, 

which  had  hung 
Two  dark  hours  in  a  cloud,  slipped  on 

fire  from  among 
The  rent  vapors,  and  sunk  o'er  the  ridge 

of  the  world. 
Then  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw  round 

him  unfurled, 
In  one  moment  of  splendor,  the  leagues 

of  dark  trees, 
And  the  long  rocky  line   of  the  wild 

Pyrenees. 
And  he  knew  by  the  milestone  scored 

rough  on  the  face 
Of  the  bare  rock,  he  was  but  two  hours 

from  the  place 
Where   Lucile   and   Luvois  must   have 

met.     This  same  track 
The  Duke  must  have  traversed,  perforce, 

to  get  back 


To  Serchon  ;  not  yet  then  the  Duke  had 

returned ! 
He  listened,  he  looked  up  the  dark,  but 

discerned 
Not  a  trace,  not  a  sound  of  a  horse  by 

the  way. 
He  knew  that  the  night  was  approaching 

to  day. 
He  resolved  to  proceed  to  Saint  Saviour. 

The  morn 
Which,  at  last,  through  the  forest  broke 

chill  and  forlorn, 
Revealed  to  him,  riding  toward  Serchon, 

the  Duke. 
'T  was  then  that  the  two  men  exchanged 

look  for  look. 


And  the  Duke's  rankled  in  him. 

XVI. 

He  rushed  on.     Ha  tore 
His  path  through  the  thick  et.   He  reached 

the  inn  door, 
Roused  the  yet  drowsing  porter,  reluctant 

to  rise, 
And  inquired  for  the  Countess.     The  man 

rubbed  his  eyes. 

The  Countess  was  gone.    And  the  Duke  ? 
The  man  stared 
A  sleepy  inquiry. 

With  accents  that  scared 
The  man's  dull  sense  awake,  "  He,  the 

stranger,"  he  cried, 
"Who  had  been  there  that  night !  " 

The  man  grinned  and  replied, 
With  a  vacant  intelligence,  "He,  0  ay, 

ay  ! 
He  went  after  the  lady." 

No  further  reply 

Could    he    give.     Alfred  Vargrave   de- 
manded no  more, 
Flung  a  coin  to  the  man,  and  so  turned 

from  the  door. 
"  What !   the  Duke  then  the  night  in 

that  lone  inn  had  passed  ? 
In  that  lone  inn  —  with  her  ! "     Was 

that  look  he  had  cast 
When  they  met  in  the  forest,  that  look 

which  remained 
On  his  mind  with  its  terrible  smile,  thus 

explained  ? 


The  day  was  half  turned  to  the  evening, 
before 


68 


LUCILE. 


He  re-entered  Serchon,  with  a  heart  sick 

and  sore. 
In  the  midst  of  a  light  crowd  of  babblers, 

his  look, 
By  their  voices  attracted,  distinguished 

the  Duke, 
Gay,  insolent,  noisy,  with  eyes  sparkling 

bright, 

With  laughter,  shrill,  airy,  continuous. 

Right 
Through   the   throng  Alfred  Vargrave, 

with  swift  sombre  stride, 
Glided    on.     The    Duke    noticed  him, 

turned,  stepped  aside, 
And,  cordially  grasping  his  hand,  whis- 
pered low, 
"  0,  how  right  have  you  been  !     There 

can  never  be  —  no, 
Never  —  any  more  contest  between  us  ! 

Milord, 
Let  us  henceforth  be  friends  !  " 

Having  uttered  that  word, 
He  turned  lightly  round   on  his  heel, 

and  again 
His  gay  laughter  was  heard,  echoed  loud 

by  that  train 
Of  his  young  imitators. 

Lord  Alfred  stood  still, 
Rooted,  stunned  to  the  spot.     He  felt 

weary  and  ill, 
Out  of  heart  with   his  own  heart,  and 

sick  to  the  soul, 
With  a  dull,  stifling  anguish  he  could 

not  control. 
Does  he  hear  in  a  dream,  through  the 

buzz  of  the  crowd, 
The  Duke's  blithe   associates,  babbling 

aloud 
Some  comment  upon  his  gay  humor  that 

day? 
He  never  was  gayer :  what  makes  him 

so  gay  ? 

'T  is,  no  doubt,  say  the  flatterers,  flat- 
tering in  tune, 
Some  vestal  whose  virtue  no  tongue  dare 

impugn 
Has  at  last   found  a  Mars,  —  who,  of 

course,  shall  be  nameless, 
The  vestal  that  yields  to  Mars  only  is 

blameless  ! 
Hark  !  hears  he   a  name   which,    thus 

syllabled,  stirs 
All  his  heart  into  tumult  ? .  .  .  Lucile 

de  Nevers 
With  the  Duke's  coupled  gayly,  in  some 

laughing,  light, 


Free  allusion  ?    Not  so  as  might  give 

him  the  right 
To  turn  fiercely  round  on  the  speaker, 

but  yet 
To  a  trite   and   irreverent  compliment 

set! 

xvni. 

Slowly,  slowly,  usurping  that  place  in 
his  soul 

Where  the  thought  of  Lucile  was  en- 
shrined, did  there  roll 

Back  again,  back  again,  on  its  smooth 
downward  course 

O'er  his  nature,  with  gathered  momentum 
and  force, 

THE  WORLD. 

XIX. 

"  No  ! "  he  muttered,  "  she  cannot  have 

sinned  ! 
True !     women    there    are    (self-named 

women  of  mind  !) 

Who  love  rather  liberty  —  liberty,  yes  ! 
To  choose  and  to  leave  —  than  the  legal- 
ized stress 
Of  the  lovingest  marriage.     But  she  — 

is  she  so  ? 
I  will  not  believe  it.     Lucile  ?     0  no, 

no  ! 
Not  Lucile  ! 

"  But  the  world  ?  and,  ah,  what  would 

it  say  ? 
0  the  look  of  that  man,  and  his  laughter, 

to-day  ! 

The  gossip's  light  question  !  the  slan- 
derous jest ! 
She  is  right !  no,  we  could  not  be  happy. 

'T  is  best 
As  it  is.     I  will  write  to  her,  —  write, 

0  my  heart  ! 

And  accept  her  farewell.     Our  farewell ! 

must  we  part,  — 
Part  thus,  then,  —  forever,  Lucile  ?     Is 

it  so? 
Yes  !  I  feel  it.     We  could  not  be  happy, 

1  know. 

'T  was  a  dream  !  we  must  waken  !  " 

xx. 

With  head  bowed,  as  though 
By  the  weight  of  the  heart's  resignation, 

and  slow 
Moody  footsteps,  he  turned  to  his  inn. 

Drawn  apart 

From  the  gate,  in  the  court-yard,  and 
ready  to  start, 


LUCILE. 


69 


Postboys  mounted,  portmanteaus  packed 

up  and  made  fast, 
A    travelling-carriage,     unnoticed,     he 

passed. 

He  ordered  his  horse  to  be  ready  anon  : 
Sent,  and  paid,  for  the  reckoning,  and 

slowly  passed  on, 
And  ascended  the  staircase,  and  entered 

his  room. 
It  was  twilight.     The  chamber  was  dark 

in  the  gloom 
Of  the  evening.     He  listlessly  kindled 

a  light, 
On  the  mantel-piece  ;  there  a  large  card 

caught  his  sight,  — 
A  large  card,  a  stout  card,  well  printed 

and  plain, 
Nothing  flourishing,  flimsy,  affected,  or 

vain. 

It  gave  a  respectable  look  to  the  slab 
That  it  lay  on.     The  name  was  — 


SIR 

RIDLEY  MACRAE. 

Full  familiar  to  him  was  the  name  that 
he  saw, 

For  't  was  that  of  his  own  future  uncle- 
in -law, 

Mrs.  Darcy's  rich  brother,  the  banker, 
well  known 

As  wearing  the  longest-phylacteried 
gown 

Of  all  the  rich  Pharisees  England  can 
boast  of ; 

A  shrewd  Puritan  Scot,  whose  sharp 
wits  made  the  most  of 

This  world  and  the  next ;  having  largely 
invested 

Not  only  where  treasure  is  never  mo- 
lested 

By  thieves,  moth,  or  rust ;  but  on  this 
earthly  ball 

Where  interest  was  high,  and  security 
small, 

Of  mankind  there  was  never  a  theory 
yet 

Not  by  some  individual  instance  upset : 

And  so  to  that  sorrowful  verse  of  the 
Psalm 


Which  declares  that  the  wicted  expand 

like  the  palm 
In  a  world  where    the    righteous   are 

stunted  and  pent, 

A  cheering  exception   did   Ridley  pre- 
sent. 
Like  the  worthy  of  Uz,  Heaven  prospered 

his  piety. 

The  leader  of  every  religious  society, 
Christian  knowledge  he  labored  through 

life  to  promote 
With  personal  profit,  and  knew  how  to 

quote 
Both  the  Stocks  and  the  Scripture,  with 

equal  advantage 
To  himself  and  admiring  friends,  in  this 

Cant- Age. 


Whilst  over  this  card  Alfred  vacantly 
brooded, 

A  waiter  his  head  through  the  doorway 
protruded ; 

"  Sir  Ridley  MacNab  with  Milord  wished 
to  speak." 

Alfred  Vargrave  could  feel  there  were 
tears  on  his  cheek  ; 

He  brushed  them  away  with  a  gesture 
of  pride. 

He  glanced  at  the  glass  ;  when  his  own 
face  he  eyed, 

He  was  scared  by  its  pallor.     Inclining 
his  head, 

He  with  tones  calm,  unshaken,  and  sil- 
very, said, 

"Sir  Ridley  may  enter." 

In  three  minutes  more 

That  benign  apparition  appeared  at  the 
door. 

Sir  Ridley,  released  for  a  while  from  the 
cares 

Of  business,  and  minded  to  breathe  the 
pure  airs 

Of  the  blue  Pyrenees,  and  enjoy  his  re- 
lease, 

In   company  there  with  his  sister  and 
niece, 

Found  himself  now  at  Serchon,  —  dis- 
tributing tracts, 

Sowing  seed  by  the  way,  and  collecting 
new  facts 

For  Exeter  Hall ;  he  was  starting  that 
night 

For  Bigorre  :  he  had  heard,  to  his  cordial 
delight, 

That  Lord  Alfred  was  there,  and,  him- 
self, setting  out 


70 


LUCILE. 


For  the  same  destination  :   impatient, 

no  doubt ! 
Here  some  commonplace  compliments  as 

to  "  the  marriage  " 
Through  his  speech  trickled  softly,  like 

honey :  his  carriage 
Was  ready.     A  storm  seemed  to  threaten 

thr  weather : 
If  his  young  friend  agreed,    why  not 

travel  together  ? 

With  a  footstep  uncertain  and  restless, 

a  frown 
Of  perplexity,  during  this  speech,  up 

and  down 
Alfred  Vargrave  was  striding  ;  but,  after 

a  pause 
And  a  slight  hesitation,  the  which  seemed 

to  cause 
Some  surprise  to  Sir  Ridley,  he  answered, 

—  "My  dear 
Sir  Ridley,    allow  me  a  few  moments 

here  — 
Half  an  hour  at  the  most  —  to  conclude 

an  affair 

Of  a  nature  so  urgent  as  hardly  to  spare 
My  presence  (which  brought  me,  indeed, 

to  this  spot), 
Before  I  accept  your  kind  offer. " 

"Why  not?" 
Said  Sir  Ridley,    and  smiled.     Alfred 

Vargrave,  before 
Sir  Ridley  observed  it,  had  passed  through 

the  door. 

A  few  moments  later,  with  footsteps  re- 
vealing 

Intense  agitation  of  uncontrolled  feel- 
ing, 

He  was  rapidly"  pacing  the  garden  below. 
What  passed  through  his  mind  then  is 

more  than  I  know. 
But  before  one  half-hour  into  darkness 

hail  IU1, 

In  the  courtyard  he  stood  with  Sir  Rid- 
ley.    His  tread 
Was  firm  and  composed;     Not  a  sign  on 

his  face 
Betrayed  there  the  least  agitation .    ' '  The 

place 
You  so  kindly  have  offered,"  he  said,  "  I 

accept. " 
And  he  stretched  out  his  hand.     The 

two  travellers  stepped 
Smiling  into  the  carriage. 

And  thus,  out  of  sight, 
They  drove  down  the  dark  road,  and 

into  the  night. 


XXII. 
Sir  Ividley  was  one  of  those  wise  men 

who,  so  far 
As  their  power  of  saying  it  goes,   say 

with  Zophar, 
"We,   no  doubt,   are  the  people,   and 

wisdom  shall  die  with  us  : '' 
Though  of  wisdom  like  theirs  there  is  no 

small  supply  with  us. 
Side  by  side  in  the  carriage  ensconced, 

the  two  men 
Began  to  converse,  somewhat  drowsily, 

when 
Alfred  suddenly  thought,  —  "Here's  a 

man  of  ripe  age, 
At  my  side,  by  his  fellows  reputed  as 

sage, 
Who  looks   happy,  and  therefore  who 

must  have  been  wise  : 
Suppose  I  with  caution   reveal  to  his 

eyes 
Some  few  of  the  reasons  which  make  me 

believe 
That    I   neither  am  happy  nor  wise  ? 

't  would  relieve 
And  enlighten,  perchance,  my  own  dark- 

ness  and  doubt." 
For  which  purpose  a  feeler  he  softly  put 

out. 
It  was  snapped  up  at  once. 

"  What  is  truth  ? "  jesting  Pilate 
Asked,  and  passed  from  the  question  at 

once  with  a  smile  at 
Its  utter  futility.     Had  he  addressed  it 
To  Ridley  MacNab,  he  at  least  had  con- 
fessed it 
Admitted  discussion  !  and  certainly  no 

man 
Could  more  promptly  have  answered  the 

sceptical  Roman 

Than  Ridley.    Hear  some  street  astrono- 
mer talk  ! 
Grant  him  two  or  three  hearers,  a  morsel 

of  chalk, 
And  forthwith  on  the  pavement  he'll 

sketch  you  the  scheme 
Of  the   heavens.     Then    hear   him   en- 
large on  his  theme  ! 

Not  afraid  of  La  Place,  nor  of  Arago,  In • ! 
He  '11  prove  you  the  whole  plan  in  plain 

ABC. 

Here 's  your  sun,  —  call  him  A  ;  B  'a  the 

moon  ;  it  is  clear 
How  the  rest  of  the  alphabet  brings  up 

the  rear 
Of  the  planets.     Now  ask  Arago,  ask 

La  Place, 


"MATILDA  SPRANG  TC  HIM,  AT  ONCE' 


LUCILE. 


71 


(Your  sages,  who  speak  with  the  heavens 

face  to  face  !) 

Their  science  in  plain  A  B  c  to  accord 
To  your  point-blank  inquiry,  my  friends  ! 

not  a  word 
Will  you  get  for  your  pains  from  their 

•ad  lips.     Alas  ! 
Not  a  drop  from  the  bottle  that 's  quite 

full  will  pass. 
'T  is  the  half-empty  vessel  that  freest 

emits 
The  water  that 's  in  it.     'T  is  thus  with 

men's  wits  ; 
Or  at  least  with  their  knowledge.     A 

man's  capability 
Of  imparting  to  others   a  truth   with 

facility 
Is    proportioned    forever   with    painful 

exactness 

To  the  portable  nature,  the  vulgar  com- 
pactness, 
The  minuteness  in  size,  or  the  lightness 

in  weight 
Of  the  truth  he  imparts.     So  small  coins 

circulate 
More  freely  than  large  ones.     A  beggar 

asks  alms, 
And  we  fling  him  a  sixpence,  nor  feel 

any  qualms  ; 
But   if  every  street   charity  shook   an 

investment, 
Or  each  beggar  to  clothe  we  must  strip 

off  a  vestment, 
The  length  of  the  process  would  limit 

the  act  ; 
And  therefore  the  truth  that 's  summed 

up  in  a  tract 
Is  most  lightly  dispensed. 

As  for  Alfred,  indeed, 
On  what  spoonfuls  of  truth  he  was  suf- 
fered to  feed 
By  Sir  Ridley,  I  know  not.     This  only 

I  know, 

That  the  two  men  thus  talking  contin- 
ued to  go 
Onward   somehow,    together, — on   into 

the  night,  — 
The  midnight,  — in  which  they  escape 

from  our  sight. 

XXIII. 

And  meanwhile  aworld  had  been  changed 

in  its  place, 
And  those  glittering   chains  that   o'er 

blue  balmy  space 
Hang  the  blessing  of  darkness,  had  drawn 

out  of  sight, 


To  solace  unseen  hemispheres,  the  soft 

night ; 
And  the  dew  of  the  dayspring  benignly 

descended, 

And  the  fair  morn  to  all  things  new  sanc- 
tion extended, 
In  the  smile  of  the  East.     And  the  lark 

soaring  on, 
Lost  in  light,  shook   the  dawn  with  a 

song  from  the  sun. 
And  the  world  laughed. 

It  wanted  but  two  rosy  hours 
From  the  noon,  when  they  passed  through 

the  thick  passion-flowers 
Of  the  little  wild  garden  that  dimpled 

before 
The   small  house  where   their  carriage 

now  stopped,  at  Bigorre. 
And  more  fair  than   the  flowers,  more 

fresh  than  the  dew, 
With  her  white   morning  robe  flitting 

joyously  through 
The   dark   shrubs  with  which  the  soft 

hillside  was  clothed, 
Alfred   Vargrave    perceived,    where    he 

paused,  his  betrothed. 
Matilda  sprang  to  him,  at  once,  with  a 

face 
Of  such  sunny  sweetness,  such  gladness, 

such  grace, 

And  radiant  confidence,  childlike  delight, 
That  his  whole  heart  upbraided  itself  at 

that  sight. 
And  he  murmured,  or  sighed,  "  0,  how 

could  I  have  strayed 
From  this   sweet   child,  or  suffered  in 

aught  to  invade 
Her  young  claim  on  my  life,  though  it 

were  for  an  hour, 
The  thought  of  another  ? " 

"  Look  up,  my  sweet  flower  ! " 
He  whispered   her  softly,    "my  heart 

unto  thee 
Is  returned,  as  returns  to  the  rose  the 

wild  bee ! " 
"And  will  wander  no  more?"  laughed 

Matilda. 

"No  more," 
He   repeated.      And,    low    to    himself, 

"  Yes,  'tis  o'er  ! 
My   course,    too,    is    decided,    Lucile ! 

Was  I  blind 

To  have  dreamed  that  these  clever  French- 
women of  mind 
Could   satisfy   simply  a  plain   English 

heart, 
Or  sympathize  with  it  ? " 


72 


LUCILE. 


XXIV. 

And  here  the  first  part 
Of  this  drama  is  over.     The  curtain  falls 

furled 
On  the  actors  within  it,  —  the  Heart  and 

the  World. 
Wooed  and  wooer  have  played  with  the 

riddle  of  life,  — 
Have  they  solved  it  ? 
Appear  !  answer,  Husband  and  Wife  ! 

XXV. 

Yet,  ere  bidding  farewell  to  Lucile  de 

Nevers, 
Hear  her  own   heart's  farewell  in  this 

letter  of  hers. 

The  COMTESSE  DE  NEVERS  to  a  FRIEND 
IN  INDIA. 

"Once  more,  0  rny  friend,  to  your  arms 

and  your  heart, 
And  the  places  of  old  .  .  .  never,  never 

to  part  ! 
Once  more  to  the  palm  and  the  fountain  ! 

Once  more 
To  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the  deep 

skies  of  yore  ! 
From  the  cities  of  Europe,  pursued  by 

the  fret 
Of  their  turmoil  wherever  my  footsteps 

are  set ; 
From  the  children  that  cry  for  the  birth, 

and  behold, 
There  is  no  strength  to  bear  them,  —  old 

Time  is  so  old  ! 
From   the   world's  weary  masters,  that 

come  upon  earth 
Sapped  and  mined   by  the  fever  they 

bear  from  their  birth  ; 
From  the  men  of  small  stature,  mere 

parts  of  a  crowd, 
Born  too  late,  when  the  strength  of  the 

world  hath  been  bowed  ; 
Back,  —  back  to  the  Orient,  from  whose 

sunbright  womb 
Sprang  the  giants   which   now  are   no 

more,  in  the  bloom 
And  the  beauty  of  times  that  are  faded 

forever  ! 
To  the  palms  !   to  the   tombs  !   to  the 

still  Sacred  River ! 
Where  I  too,  the  child  of  a  day  that  is 

done, 
First  leapt  into  life,  and  looked  up  at 

the  sun. 


Back  again,  back  again,  to  the  hill-tops 

of  home 
I  come,  0  my  friend,  my  consoler,  I 

come ! 
Are   the   three   intense    stars,    that  we 

watched  night  by  night 
Burning  broad  on  the  band  of  Orion,  as 

bright  ? 
Are  the  large  Indian  moons  as  serene  as 

of  old, 
When,    as    children,    we    gathered   the 

moonbeams  for  gold  ? 
Do  you  yet  recollect  me,  my  friend  ?    Do 

you  still 
Remember  the  free  games  we  played  on 

the  hill, 
'Mid  those  huge  stones  upheaped,  where 

we  recklessly  trod 
O'er  the  old  ruined  fane  of  the  old  ruined 

god? 
How  he  frowned,  while  around  him  we 

carelessly  played  ! 
That  frown  on  my  life  ever  after  hath 

stayed, 
Like  the  shade  of  a  solemn  experience 

upcast 
From  some  vague  supernatural  grief  in 

the  past. 
For  the  poor  god,  in   pain,  more  than 

anger,  he  frowned, 
To  perceive  that  our  youth,  though  so 

fleeting,  had  found, 
In  its  transient  and  ignorant  gladness, 

the  bliss 

Which  his  science  divine  seemed  divine- 
ly to  miss. 

Alas  !  you  may  haply  remember  me  yet 
The   free  child,   whose  glad   childhood 

myself  I  forget. 
I   come  —  a  sad  woman,   defrauded  of 

rest : 

I  bear  to  you  only  a  laboring  breast  : 
My  heart  is  a  storm-beaten  ark,  wildly 

hurled 
O'er  the  whirlpools  of  tune,   with  the 

wrecks  of  a  world  : 
The  dove  from  my  bosom  hath  flown  far 

away  : 
It   is   flown,    and   returns  not,  though 

many  a  day 
Have  I  watched  from  the  windows  of 

life  for  its  coming. 
Friend,  I  sigh  for  repose,  I  am  weary  of 

roaming. 

I  know  not  what  Ararat  rises  for  me 
Far  away,  o'er  the  waves  of  the  wander- 
ing sea : 


LUCILE. 


73 


I  know  not  what  rainbow  may  yet,  from 

far  hills, 
Lift  the  promise  of  hope,  the  cessation 

of  ills  : 
But  a  voice,  like  the  voice  of  my  youth, 

in  my  breast 
Wakes   and  whispers  me  on  —  to  the 

East !  to  the  East ! 
Shall  I  find  the  child's  heart  that  I  left 

there  ?  or  find 
The  lost  youth  I  recall   with  its  pure 

peace  of  mind  ? 
Alas  !  who  shall  number  the  drops  of 

the  rain  ? 
Or  give  to  the  dead  leaves  their  greenness 

again  ? 

Who  shall  seal  up  the  caverns  the  earth- 
quake hath  rent  ? 
Who  shall  bring  forth  the  winds  that 

within  them  are  pent  ? 
To  a  voice  who  shall  render  an  image  ? 

or  who 
From  the  heats  of  the  noontide  shall 

gather  the  dew  ? 
I  have  burned  out  within  me  the  fuel  of 

life 
Wherefore  lingers  the  flame  ?    Rest  is 

sweet  after  strife. 

I  would  sleep  for  a  while.      I  am  weary. 

"My  friend, 

I  had  meant  in  these  lines  to  regather, 

and  send 
To   our  old  home,   my  life's   scattered 

links.     But  't  is  vain  ! 
Each  attempt  seems  to  shatter  the  chap- 
let  again  ; 
Only  fit  now  for  fingers  like  mine  to  run 

o'er, 
Who  return,  a  recluse,  to  those  cloisters 

of  yore 
Whence  too  far  I  have  wandered. 

"  How  many  long  years 
Does  it  seem  to  me  now  since  the  quick, 

scorching  tears, 
While  I  wrote  to  you,   splashed  out  a 

girl's  premature 
Moans  of  pain  at  what  women  in  silence 

endure  ! 
To  your  eyes,-  friend  of  mine,   an,d  to 

your  eyes  alone, 
That  now  long-faded  page  of  my  life  hath 

been  shown 
Which  recorded  my  heart's  birth,  and 

death,  as  you  know, 
Many  years  since,  —  how  many  ! 

"  A  few  months  ago 


I    seemed    reading  it    backward,   that 

page  !     Why  explain 
Whence  or  how  ?    The  old  dream  of  my 

life  rose  again. 

The  old  superstition  !  the  idol  of  old  ! 
It  is  over.     The  leaf  trodden  down  in 

the  mould 
Is  not  to  the  forest  more  lost  than  to 

me 
That  emotion.      I  bury  it  here  by  the 

sea 
Which  will  bear  me  anon  far  away  from 

the  shore 
Of  a  land  which  my  footsteps  shall  visit 

no  more. 
And  a  heart's  requiescat  I  write  on  that 

grave. 
Hark  !  the  sigh  of  the  wind,  and  the 

sound  of  the  wave, 
Seem  like  voices  of  spirits  that  whisper 

me  home  ! 

I  come,  0  you  whispering  voices,  I  come ! 
My  friend,  ask  me  nothing. 

"  Receive  me  alone 
As  a  Santon  receives  to  his  dwelling  of 

stone 
In  silence  some  pilgrim  the  midnight 

may  bring  : 

It  may  be  an  angel  that,  weary  of  wing, 
Hath  paused  in   his  flight  from  some 

city  of  doom, 

Or  only  a  wayfarer  strayed  in  the  gloom. 
This  only  I  know :  that  in  Europe  at 

least 
Lives  the  craft  or  the  power  that  must 

master  our  East. 
Wherefore  strive  where  the  gods  must 

themselves  yield  at  last  ? 
Both  they  and  their  altars  pass  by  with 

the  Past. 
The  gods  of  the  household  Time  thrusts 

from  the  shelf ; 

And  I  seem  as  unreal  and  weird  to  my- 
self 
As  those  idols  of  old. 

"  Other  times,  other  men, 
Other  men,  other  passions  ! 

"So  be  it !  yet  again 
I  turn  to  my  birthplace,  the  birthplace 

of  morn, 
And  the  light  of  those  lands  where  the 

great  sun  is  bom  ! 
Spread  your  arms,  0  my  friend  !  on  your 

breast  let  me  feel 

The  repose  which  hath  fled  from  my  own. 
"  Your  LUCILE." 


74 


LUCILE. 


PAET    II. 


CANTO  I. 


HAIL,  Muse  !    But  each  Muse  by  this 

time  has,  I  know, 
Been  used  up,  aud  Apollo  has  bent  his 

own  bow 
All  too  long  ;  so  I  leave  unassaulted  the 

portal 
Of  Olympus,   and  only  invoke  here  a 

mortal 

Hail,    Murray  !  —  not    Lindley,  —  but 

Murray  and  Son. 
Hail,  omniscient,  beneficent,  great  Two- 

in-One  ! 
In  Albemarle   Street   may  thy  temple 

long  stand  ! 

Long  enlightened  and  led  by  thine  eru- 
dite hand, 
May  each  novice  in   science  nomadic 

unravel 

Statistical  mazes  of  modernized  travel ! 
May  eacli  inn-keeping  knave  long  thy 

judgments  revere, 
And  the  postboys  of  Europe  regard  thee 

with  fear ; 
While  they  feel,  in  the  silence  of  baffled 

extortion, 
That  knowledge  is  power  !     Long,  long, 

like  that  portion 
Of  the  national  soil  which  the  Greek 

exile  took 
In  his  baggage  wherever  he  went,  may 

thy •book 
Cheer  each  poor  British  pilgrim,  who 

trusts  to  thy  wit 
Not  to  pay  through  his  nose  just  for 

following  it ! 
Mayst  thou  long,  0  instructor !  preside 

o'er  his  way, 
And  teach  him  alike  what  to  praise  and 

to  pay  ! 
Thee,  pursuing  this  pathway  of  song, 

once  again 

I  invoke,  lest,  unskilled,  I  should  wan- 
der in  vain. 
To  my  call  be  propitious,  nor,  churlish, 

refuse 
Thy  great  accents  to  lend  to  the  lips  of 

my  Muse ; 


For  I  sing  of  the  Naiads  who  dwell  'mid 

the  stems 
Of  the  green  linden-trees  by  the  waters 

of  Ems. 
Yes  !  thy  spirit  descends  upon  mine,  0 

John  Murray  ! 
And  I  start  —  with  thy  book  —  for  the 

Baths  in  a  hurry. 

II. 

"  At  Coblentz  a  bridge  of  boats  crosses 
the  Rhine ; 

And  from  thence  the  road,  winding  by 
Ehrenbreitstein, 

Passes  over  the  frontier  of  Nassau. 

("  N.  P.. 

No  custom-house  here  since  the  Zoll- 
verein."     See 

Murray,  paragraph  30.) 

"  The  route,  at  each  turn, 

Here  the  lover  of  nature  allows  to  dis- 
cern, 

In  varying  prospect,  a  rich  wooded  dale  : 

The  vine  and  acacia-tree  mostly  prevail 

In  the  foliage  observable  here ;    and, 
moreover, 

The  soil  is  carbonic.     The  road,  under 
cover 

Of  the  grape-clad  and  mountainous  up- 
land that  hems 

Round  this  beautiful  spot,  brings  the 
traveller  to  —  "  EMS. 

A  schnellpost  from   Frankfort   arrives 
every  day. 

At  the  Kurhaus  (the  old  Ducal  mansion) 
you  pay 

Eight  florins  for  lodgings.     A  Restaura- 
teur 

Is  attached  to  the  place  ;  but  most  trav- 
ellers prefer 

(Including,    indeed,    many  persons   of 
note) 

To  dine  at  the  usual-priced  table  d'h&te. 

Through  the  town  nins  the  Lahn,  the 
steep  green  banks  of  which 

Two  rows  of  white  picturesque  houses 
enrich  ; 

And  between  the  high  road  and  the 
river  is  laid 

Out  a  sort  of  a  garden,  called  'TuB 
Promenade.' 


LUCILE. 


75 


Female  visitors  here,  who  may  make  up 
their  mind 

To  ascend  to  the  top  of  these  mountains, 
will  find 

On  the  banks  of  the  stream,  saddled  all 
the  day  long, 

Troops  of  donkeys  —  sure-footed  —  pro- 
verbially strong  "  ; 

And  the  traveller  at  Ems  may  remark, 
as  he  passes, 

Here,  as  elsewhere,  the  women  run  after 
the  asses. 


'Mid  the  world's  weary  denizens  bound 

for  these  springs 
In  the  month  when  the  merle  on  the 

maple-bough  sings, 
Pursued  to  the   place  from  dissimilar 

paths 
By  a  similar  sickness,  there  came  to  the 

baths 
Four    sufferers,  —  each    stricken    deep 

through  the  heart, 
Or  the  head,  by  the  self-same  invisible 

dart 
Of  the  arrow  that  flieth  unheard  in  the 

noon, 
From  the  sickness  that  walketh  unseen 

in  the  moon, 
Through   this   great    lazaretto  of   life, 

wherein  each 
Infects  with   his  own  '  sores  the  next 

within  reach. 

First  of  these  were  a  young  English  hus- 
band and  wife, 

Grown  weary  ere  half  through  the  jour- 
ney of  life. 
0  Nature,  say  where,  thou  gray  mother 

of  earth, 
Is  the  strength  of  thy  youth  ?  that  thy 

womb  brings  to  birth 
Only  old  men  to-day  !     On  the  winds, 

as  of  old, 
Thy  voice  in  its  accent  is  joyous  and 

bold  ; 
Thy  forests  are  green  as  of  yore ;  and 

thine  oceans 
Yet  move  in  the  might  of  their  ancient 

emotions  : 
But  man  —  thy  last  birth  and  thy  best 

—  is  no  more 
Life's  free  lord,  that  looked  up  to  the 

starlight  of  yore, 
With  the  faith  on  the  brow,  and  the  fire 

in  the  eyes, 


The  firm  foot  on  the  earth,  the  high 

heart  in  the  skies  ; 
But  a  gray-headed  infant,  defrauded  of 

youth, 
Born  too  late  or  too  early. 

The  lady,  in  truth, 
Was  young,  fair,  and  gentle  ;  and  never 

was  given 
To  more  heavenly  eyes  the  pure  azure 

of  heaven. 
Never  yet  did  the  sun  touch  to  ripples 

of  gold 
Tresses  brighter  than  those  which  her 

soft  hand  unrolled 
From    her   noble   and   innocent   brow, 

when  she  rose, 
An  Aurora,  at  dawn,  from  her  balmy 

repose, 
And  into  the  mirror  the  bloom  and  the 

blush 
Of  her  beauty  broke,  glowing  ;  like  light 

in  a  gush 
From  the  sunrise  in  summer. 

Love,  roaming,  shall  meet 
But  rarely  a  nature  more  sound  or  more 

sweet  — 
Eyes  brighter  —  brows  whiter  —  a  figure 

more  fair  — 

Or  lovelier  lengths  of  more  radiant  hair  — 
Than  thine,  Lady  Alfred  !     And  here  I 

aver 
(May  those  that  have  seen  thee  declare 

if  I  err) 

That  not  all  the  oysters  in  Britain  contain 
A  pearl  pure  as  thou  art. 

Let  some  one  explain,  — 
Who  may  know  more  than  I  of  the  inti- 
mate life 
Of  the  pearl  with  the  oyster,  —  why  yet 

in  his  wife, 
In  despite  of  her  beauty  —  and  most 

when  he  felt 
His  soul  to  the  sense  of  her  loveliness 

melt  — 
Lord  Alfred  missed  something  he  sought 

for :  indeed, 
The  more  that  he  missed  it  the  greater 

the  need  ; 

Till  it  seemed  to  himself  he  could  will- 
ingly spare 
All  the  charms  that  he  found  for  the 

one  charm  not  there. 

IV. 

For  the  blessings  Life  lends  us,  it  strictly 
demands 


76 


LUCILE. 


The  worth  of  their  full  usufruct  at  our 

hands. 
And  the  value  of  all  things  exists,  not 

indeed 
In  themselves,  but  man's  use  of  them, 

feeding  man's  need. 


Alfred  Vargrave,  in  wedding  with  beauty 

and  youth, 
Had     embraced     both    Ambition     and 

Wealth.     Y.-i  in  truth 
Unfulfilled  the  ambition,  and  sterile  the 

wealth 


LUCILE. 


77 


(In  a  life  paralyzed  by  a  moral  ill-health), 
Had  remained,   while  the  beauty  and 

youth,  unredeemed 
From   a  vague   disappointment   at   all 

things,  but  seemed 
Day  by  day  to  reproach  him  in  silence 

for  all 
That  lost  youth  in  himself  they  had  failed 

to  recall. 

No  career  had  he  followed,  no  object  ob- 
tained 
In  the  world  by  those  worldly  advantages 

gained 
From  nuptials  beyond  which  once  seemed 

to  appear, 
Lit  by  love,  the  broad  path  of  a  brilliant 

career. 
All  that  glittered  and  gleamed  through 

the  moonlight  of  youth 
With  a  glory  so  fair,  now  that  manhood 

in  truth 
Grasped  and  gathered  it,   seemed  like 

that  false  fairy  gold 
Which  leaves  in  the   hand   only  moss, 

leaves,  and  mould  ! 


Fairy  gold  !  moss  and  leaves  !  and  the 

young  Fairy  Bride  ? 
Lived  there  yet  fairy-lauds  in  the  face 

at  his  side  ? 
Say,  0  friend,  if  at  evening  thou  ever 

hast  watched 

Some  pale  and  impalpable   vapor,   de- 
tached 
From  the  dim   and   disconsolate  earth, 

rise  and  fall 
O'er  the  light  of  a  sweet  serene  star,  until 

all 
The  chilled  splendor  reluctantly  waned 

in  the  deep 
Of  its  own  native  heaven  ?    Even   so 

seemed  to  creep 
O'er  that  fair  and  ethereal  face,  day  by 

day, 
While  the    radiant  vermeil,    subsiding 

away, 
Hid  its  light   in   the   heart,  the   faint 

gradual  veil 
Of  a  sadness  unconscious. 

The  lady  grew  pale 
As  silent  her  lord  grew  :   and  both,  as 

they  eyed 
Each  the  other    askance,  turned,   and 

secretly  sighed. 
Ah,  wise  friend,  what  avails  all  experience 

can  give  ? 


True,  we  know  what  life  is  —  but,  alas  ! 

do  we  live  ? 
The  grammar  of  life  we  have  gotten  by 

heart, 

But  life's  self  we  have  made  a  dead  lan- 
guage, —  an  art, 
Not  a  voice.     Could  we   speak  it,  but 

once,  as  't  was  spoken 
When  the  silence  of  passion   the  first 

time  was  broken  ! 
Cuvier  knew  the  world  better  than  Adam, 

no  doubt : 
But  the  last  man,  at  best,  was  but  learned 

about 
What  the  first,  without  learning,  enjoyed. 

What  art  thou 
To   the  man  of  to-day,  0   Leviathan, 

now  ? 
A  science.     What  wert  thou  to  him  that 

from  ocean 
First  beheld  thee  appear  ?    A  surprise, 

—  an  emotion  ! 
When  life  leaps  in   the  veins,  when  it 

beats  in  the  heart, 
When  it  thrills  as  it  fills  every  animate 

part, 
Where  lurks  it  ?  how  works  it  ?  ...  we 

scarcely  detect  it. 
But  life  goes  :  the  heart  dies  :  haste,  0 

leech,  and  dissect  it  ! 
This  accursed  sesthetical,  ethical  age 
Hath   so   fingered    life's    hornbook,    so 

blurred  every  page, 
That  the   old  glad    romance,   the  gay 

chivalrous  story, 
With  its  fables  of  faery,  its  legends  of 

gi°ry> 

Is  turned  to  a  tedious  instruction,  not 

new 
To  the   children  that  read  it  insipidly 

through. 
We  know  too  much  of  Love  ere  we  love. 

We  can  trace 
Nothing  new,  unexpected,  or  strange  in 

his  face 
When  we  see  it  at  last.     'T  is  the  same 

little  Cupid, 
With  the  same  dimpled  cheek,  and  the 

smile  almost  stxipid, 
We  have  seen  in  our  pictures,  and  stuck 

on  our  shelves, 

And  copied  a  hundred  times  over,  our- 
selves. 
And  wherever  we   turn,   and  whatever 

we  do, 
Still,    that  horrible   sense  of  the  dej& 

eonnu  I 


78 


LUCILE. 


n. 
Perchance  't  was   the  fault  of  the  life 

that  they  led  ; 
Perchance  't  was  the  fault  of  the  novels 

they  read  ; 
Perchance  't  was  a  fault  in  themselves  ; 

I  am  bound  not 
To  say  :  this  I  know  —  that  these  two 

creatures  found  not 
In  each  other  some  sign  they  expected 

to  find 
Of  a  something  unnamed  in  the  heart  or 

the  mind  ; 

And,  missing  it,  each  felt  a  right  to  com- 
plain 
Of  a  sadness  which  each  found  no  word 

to  explain. 
Whatever  it  was,  the  world  noticed  not 

it 

In  the  light-hearted  beauty,  the  light- 
hearted  wit. 
Still,  as  once  with  the  actors  in  Greece, 

't  is  the  case, 
Each  must  speak  to  the  crown  with  a 

mask  on  his  face. 
Praise  followed  Matilda  wherever  she 

went. 

She  was  flattered.     Can  flattery  pur- 
chase content  ? 
Yes.     While  to  its  voice,  for  a  moment, 

she  listened, 
The  young  cheek  still  bloomed,  and  the 

soft  eyes  still  glistened  ; 
And  her  lord,  when,  like  one  of  those 

light  vivid  things 
That  glide  down  the  gauzes  of  summer 

with  wings 
Of  rapturous  radiance,  unconscious  she 

moved 
Through  that  buzz  of  inferior  creatures, 

which  proved 
Her  beauty,  their  envy,   one  moment 

forgot 
'Mid  the  many  charms  there,   the  one 

charm  that  was  not : 
And  when  o'er  her  beauty  enraptured  he 

bowed, 
(As  they   turned  to  each   other,    each 

flushed  from  the  crowd,) 
And  murmured  those  praises  which  yet 

seemed  more  dear 
Than  the  praises  of  others  had  grown  to 

her  ear, 
She,  too,  ceased  awhile  her  own  fate  to 

regret  : 
"  Yes  !  ...  he  loves  me,"  she  sighed  ; 

"  this  is  love,  then,  — and  yet — /  " 


Ah,    that    yd !    fatal   word  !    't  is  the 

moral  of  all 
Thought  and  felt,  seen  or  done,  in  this 

world  since  the  Fall  ! 
It  stands  at  the  end  of  each  sentence  we 

learn  ; 

It  flits  in  the  vista  of  all  we  discern  ; 
It  leads  us,  for  ever  and  ever,  away 
To  find  in  to-morrow  what  flies   with 

to-day. 

'T  was  this  same  little  fatal  and  mysti- 
cal word 
That  now,   like  a  mirage,  led  my  lady 

and  lord 
To  the  waters  of  Ems  from  the  waters  of 

Marah  ; 
Drooping  pilgrims  in  Fashion's  blank, 

arid  Sahara ! 

VIII. 

At  the  same  time,  pursued  by  a  spell 

much  the  same, 
To  these  waters  two  other  worn  pilgrims 

there  came  : 
One  a  man,  one  a  woman  :  just  now,  at 

the  latter, 
As  the  Reader  I  mean  by  and  by  to  look 

at  her 
And  judge  for  himself,  I  will  not  even 

glance. 


Of  the  self-crowned  young  kings  of  the 

Fashion  in  France 
Whose  resplendent  regalia   so  dazzled 

the  sight, 
Whose  horse  was  so  perfect,  whose  boots 

were  so  bright, 
Who  so  hailed  in  the  salon,  so  marked 

in  the  Bois, 
Who  so  welcomed  by  all,  as  Eugene  de 

Luvois  ? 
Of   all   the   smooth-browed    premature 

debauchees 

In  that  town  of  all  towns,  where  De- 
bauchery sees 
On   the   forehead   of  youth    her  mark 

everywhere  graven,  — 
In  Paris  I  mean,  —where   the   streets 

are  all  paven 
By  those  two  fiends  whom  Milton  saw 

bridging  the  way 
From    Hell    to    this    planet,  —  who, 

haughty  and  gay, 
The  free  rebel  of  life,  bound  or  led  by 

no  law, 


LUCILE. 


79 


Walked  that  causeway  as  bold  as  Eugene 

de  Luvois  ? 
Yes !    he   marched   through   the    great 

masquerade,  loud  of  tongue, 
Bold  of  brow  :  but  the  motley  he  masked 

in,  it  hung 
So  loose,  trailed  so  wide,  and  appeared 

to  impede 
So  strangely  at  times  the  vexed  effort  at 

speed, 
That  a  keen   eye  might  guess  it  was 

made  —  not  for  him, 
But  some  brawler  more  stalwart  of  stat- 
ure and  limb. 
That  it  irked  him,    in  truth,   you  at 

times  could  divine, 
For  when  low  was  the  music,  and  spilt 

was  the  wine, 
He  would  clutch  at  the  garment,   as 

though  it  oppressed 
And  stifled  some  impulse  that  choked 

in  his  breast. 


x. 

What  !  he,  ...  the  light  sport  of  his 
frivolous  ease  ! 

Was  he,  too,  a  prey  to  a  mortal  disease  ? 

My  friend,  hear  a  parable  :  ponder  it 
well : 

For  a  moral  there  is  in  the  tale  that  I 
tell. 

One  evening  I  sat  in  the  Palais  Royal, 

And  there,  while  1  laughed  at  Grassot 
and  Arnal, 

My  eye  fell  on  the  face  of  a  man  at  my 
side  ; 

Every  time  that  he  laughed  I  observed 
that  he  sighed, 

As  though  vexed  to  be  pleased.  I  re- 
marked that  he  sat 

111  at  ease  on  his  seat,  and  kept  twirling 
his  hat 

In  his  hand,  with  a  look  of  unquiet  ab- 
straction. 

I  inquired  the  cause  of  his  dissatisfac- 
tion. 

" Sir,"  he  said,  "if  what  vexes  me  here 
you  would  know, 

Learn  that,  passing  this  way  some  few 
half-hours  ago, 

I  walked  into  the  Fran£ais,  to  look  at 
Rachel. 

(Sir,  that  woman  in  Phedre  is  a  mira- 
cle !)  —  Well, 

I  asked  for  a  box  :  they  were  occupied 
all: 


For  a  seat  in  the  balcony  :  all  taken !  a 

stall : 
Taken  too  :  the  whole  house  was  as  full 

as  could  be,  — 
Not  a  hole  for  a  rat  !  I  had  just  time  to 

see 

The  lady  I  love  t$tc-&-t$te  with  a  friend 
In  a  box  out  of  reach  at  the  opposite  end : 
Then  the  crowd  pushed  me  out.     What 

was  left  me  to  do  ? 
I  tried  for  the  tragedy  .  .  .  que  voulez- 

vous  ? 
Every  place  for  the  tragedy  booked  !  .  .  . 

mon  ami, 
The  farce  was  close  by  :  ...  at  the  farce 

me  voici  ! 
The  piece  is  a  new  one  :  and  Grassot 

plays  well : 
There   is   drollery,   too,   in  that  fellow 

Ravel : 
And  Hyacinth's  nose  is  superb  ! .  .  .  Yet 

I  meant 
My  evening  elsewhere,  and  not  thus,  to 

have  spent. 
Fate  orders  these  things  by  her  will,  not 

by  ours  ! 
Sir,  mankind  is  the  sport  of  invisible 

powers." 

I  once  met  the  Due  de  Luvois  for  a  mo- 
ment ; 

And  I  marked,  when  his  features  I  fixed 
in  my  comment, 

O'er  those  features  the  same  vague  dis- 
quietude stray 

I  had  seen  on  the  face  of  my  friend  at 
the  play  ; 

And  I  thought  that  he  too,  very  proba- 
bly, spent 

His  evenings  not  wholly  as  first  he  had 
meant. 


0  source  of  the  holiest  joys  we  inherit, 

0  Sorrow,  thou  solemn,  invisible  spirit ! 

Ill  fares  it  with  man  when,  through 
life's  desert  sand, 

Grown  impatient  too  soon  for  the  long- 
promised  land 

He  turns  from  the  worship  of  thee,  as 
thou  art, 

An  expressless  and  imageless  truth  in 
the  heart, 

And  takes  of  the  jewels  of  Egypt,  the 
pelf 

And  the  gold  of  the  Godless,  to  make  to 
himself 


80 


LUCILE. 


A  gaudy,  idolatrous  image  of  thee, 
And  then  bows  to  the  sound  of  the  cym- 
bal the  knee. 
The  sorrows  we  make  to   ourselves  are 

false  gods  : 
Like  the  prophets  of  Baal,  our  bosoms 

with  rods 
We   may  smite,    we   may  gash   at  our 

hearts  till  they  bleed, 
But  these  idols  are  blind,  deaf,  and  dumb 

to  our  need. 
The  land  is  athirst,  and  cries  out  !  .  .  . 

't  is  in  vain  ; 
The  great  blessing  of  Heaven  descends 

not  in  rain. 


xn. 

It  was  night  ;  and  the  lamps  were  be- 
ginning to  gleam 
Through  tlie   long  linden-trees,   folded 

each  in  his  dream, 
From  that  building  which  looks  like  a 

temple  .  .  .  and  is 
The  Temple  of  —  Health  ?    Nay,   but 

enter  !     I  wis 

That  never  the  rosy-hued  deity  knew 
One  votary  out  of  that  sallow-cheeked 

crew 
Of  Courlanders,  Wallacs,  Greeks,  affable 

Russians, 

Explosive  Parisians,  potato-faced  Prus- 
sians ; 
Jews  —  Hamburghers    chiefly  ;  —  pure 

patriots,  —  Suabians  ;  — 
"  Cappadocians  and  Elamites,  Cretes  and 

Arabians, 
And  the  dwellers  in  Pontus  "...  My 

muse  will  not  weary 
More  lines  with  the  list  of  them  .  .  . 

curfremuere  ? 
What  is  it  they  murmur,  and  mutter, 

and  hum  ? 
Into  what   Pandemonium   is  Pentecost 

come? 
O,  what  is  the  name  of  the  god  at  whose 

fane 
Every  nation  is  mixed  in  so  motley  a 

train  ? 
What  weird  Eabala  lies  on  those  tables 

outspread  ? 
To  what  oracle  turns  with  attention  each 

head? 
What  holds  these  pale  worshippers  each 

so  devout, 
And  what  are  those  hierophants  busied 

about  ? 


XIII. 

Here  passes,  rrpassi-s.  and  flits  to  and  fro, 
And  rolls  without  ceasing  thr  w>-,\\  Y. ., 

and  No  : 
Round   this   altar    alternate'    tin-   wrinl 

Passions  dance, 
And  the  God  worshipped  here  is  the  old 

God  of  Chance. 

Through  the  wide-open  doors  of  the  dis- 
tant saloon 
Flute,  hautboy,  and  fiddle  are  squeaking 

in  tune  ; 

And  an  indistinct  music  forever  is  rolled, 
That  mixes  and  chimes  with  the  chink 

of  the  gold, 
From  a  vision,  that  flits  in  a  luminous 

haze, 

Of  figures  forever  eluding  the  gaze  ; 
It  fleets  through  the  doorway,  it  gleams 

on  the  glass, 
And  the  weird  words  pursue  it  —  Rouge, 

Impair,  et  Passe  I 
Like  a  sound  borne  in  sleep  through 

such  dreams  as  encumber 
With  haggard  emotions  the  wild  wicked 

slumber 
Of  some  witch  when  she  seeks,  through 

a  nightmare,  to  grab  at 
The  hot  hoof  of  the  fiend,  on  her  way 

to  the  Sabbat. 


The  Due  de  Luvois  and  Lord  Alfred 

had  met 
Some  few  evenings  ago  (for  the  season 

as  yet 

Was  but  young)  in  this  self-same  Pavil- 
ion of  Chance. 
The  idler  from  England,  the  idler  from 

France 
Shook  hands,  each,  of  course,  with  much 

cordial  pleasure  : 
An  acquaintance  at  Ems  is  to  most  men 

a  treasure, 
And  they  both  were  too  well-bred   in 

aught  to  betray 
One  discourteous  remembrance  of  things 

passed  away. 
'T  was  a  sight  that  was  pleasant,  indeed, 

to  be  seen, 
These  friends  exchange  greetings  ;  —  the 

men  who  had  been 
Foes  so  nearly  in  days  that  were  past. 

This,  no  doubt, 
Is  why,  on  the  night  I   am  speaking 

about, 


LUCILE. 


81 


My  Lord  Alfred  sat  down  by  himself  at 

roulette, 
Without   one    suspicion   his   bosom  to 

fret, 
Although  he  had  left,  with  his  pleasant 

French  friend, 
Matilda,  half  vexed,  at  the  room's  farthest 

end. 

xv. 

Lord  Alfred  his  combat  with  Fortune 

began 
With  a  few  modest  thalers  —  away  they 

all  ran  — 
The  reserve  followed  fast  in  the   rear. 

As  his  purse 
Grew  lighter  his  spirits   grew  sensibly 

worse. 
One  needs  not  a  Bacon  to  find  a  cause 

for  it : 
'T  is  an  old  law  in  physics  —  Natura 

dbhorret 
Vacuum  —  and  my  lord,  as  he  watched 

his  last  crown 
Tumble    into   the  bank,    turned   away 

with  a  frown 
Which  the  brows  of  Napoleon  himself 

might  have  decked 
On  that  day  of  all  days  when  an  empire 

was  wrecked 

On   thy  plain,   Waterloo,  and  he   wit- 
nessed the  last 
Of   his  favorite   Guard  cut  to  pieces, 

aghast ! 
Just  then  Alfred  felt,  he  could  scarcely 

tell  why, 
Within  him  the  sudden   strange   sense 

that  some  eye 
Had  long  been  intently  regarding  him 

there,  — 

That  some  gaze  was  upon  him  too  search- 
ing to  bear. 
He  rose  and  looked  up.     Was  it  fact  ? 

Was  it  fable  ? 
Was  it  dream  ?    Was  it  waking  ?    Across 

the  green  table, 
That  face,  with   its   features  so  fatally 

known,  — 
Those  eyes,  whose  deep  gaze  answered 

strangely  his  own,  — 
What  was  it  ?     Some  ghost  from  its  grave 

come  again  ? 

Some  cheat  of  a  feverish,  fanciful  brain  ? 
Or  was  it  herself —  with  those  deep  eyes 

of  hers, 
And  that  face  unforgotten  ?  —  Lucile  de 

N  overs  ! 


Ah,  well  that  pale  woman  a  phantom 

might  seem, 
Who  appeared  to  herself  but  the  dream 

of  a  dream  ! 
'Neath  those  features  so  calm,  that  fair 

forehead  so  hushed, 
That  pale  cheek  forever  by  passion  un- 

fiushed, 
There   yawned  an  insatiate  void,   and 

there  heaved 

A  tumult  of  restless  regrets  unrelieved. 
The  brief  noon  of  beauty  was  passing 

away, 
And  the  chill  of  the  twilight  fell,  silent 

and  gray, 
O'er  that  deep,  self-perceived  isolation 

of  soul. 

And  now,  as  all  round  her  the  dim  even- 
ing stole, 
With  its  weird  desolations,  she  inwardly 

grieved 
For  the  want  of  that  tender  assurance 

received 
From  the  warmth  of  a  whisper,  the  glance 

of  an  eye, 
Which  should  say,  or  should  look,  "Fear 

thou  naught,  —  / am  by  ! " 
And  thus,  through  that  lonely  and  self- 
fixed  existence, 
Crept  a  vague  sense  of  silence,  and  horror, 

and  distance  : 
A  strange   sort  of  faint-footed  fear,  — 

like  a  mouse 
That  comes  out,  when  't  is  dark,  in  some 

old  ducal  house 
Long  deserted,  where  no  one  the  creature 

can  scare, 
And  the  forms  on  the  arras  are  all  that 

move  there. 

In  Rome, —  in  the  Forum, —  there  opened 

one  night 
A  gulf.     All  the  augurs  turned  pale  at 

the  sight. 
In  this  omen  the  anger  of  Heaven  they 

read. 
Men  consulted  the  gods  :  then  the  oracle 

said  :  — 
"Ever  open  this  gulf  shall  endure,  till 

at  last 
That  which  Rome  hath  most  precious 

within  it  be  cast." 
The  Romans  threw  in  it  their  corn  and 

their  stuff, 
But  the  gulf  yawned  as  wide.     Rome 

seemed  likely  enough 


82 


LUCILE. 


To  be  mined  ere  this  rent  in  her  heart 

she  could  choke. 

Then  Curtius,  revering  the  oracle,  spoke 
"  0  Quirites  !  to  this  Heaven's  question 

is  conic  : 
What  to  Rome  is  most  precious  ?    The 

manhood  of  Rome." 
He  plunged,  and  the  gulf  closed. 

The  tale  is  not  new  ; 
But  the  moral  applies  many  ways,  and 

is  true. 
How,  for  hearts  rent  in  twain,  shall  the 

curse  be  destroyed  ? 
T  is  a  warm  human  life  that  must  fill 

up  the  void. 
Thorough  many  a  heart  runs  the  rent  in 

the  fable  ; 
But  who  to  discover  a  Curtius  is  able  ? 


XVII. 

Back  she  came  from  her  long  hiding- 
place,  at  the  source 

Of  the  sunrise  ;  where,  fair  in  their  fab- 
ulous course, 

Run  the  rivers  of  Eden  :  an  exile  again, 

To  the  cities  of  Europe,  —  the  scenes, 
and  the  men, 

And  the  life,  and  the  ways,  she  had  left : 
still  oppressed 

With  the  same  hungry  heart,  and  un- 
peaceable  breast 

The   same,   to  the  same  things !     The 
world,  she  had  quitted 

With  a  sigh,  with  a  sigh  she  re-entered. 
Soon  flitted 

Through  the  salons  and  clubs,  to  the 
great  satisfaction 

Of  Paris,  the  news  of  a  novel  attraction. 

The  enchanting  Lucile,  the  gay  Coun- 
tess, once  more 

To  her  old  friend,  the  World,  had  re- 
opened her  door ; 

The  World  came,  and  shook  hands,  and 
was  pleased  and  amused 

With  what  the  World  then  went  away 
and  abused. 

From  the  woman's  fair  fame  it  in  naught 
could  detract : 

'T  was  the  woman's  free  genius  it  vexed 
and  attacked 

With  a  sneer  at  her  freedom  of  action 
and  speech. 

But  its  light  careless  cavils,  in  truth, 
could  not  reach 

The   lone   heart   they  aimed  at.      Her 
tears  fell  beyond 


'  The  world's  limit,  to  feel  that  the  world 

could  respond 

To  that  heart's  deepest,  innermost  yearn- 
ing, in  naught. 
T  was  no  longer  this  earth's  idle  inmates 

she  sought : 

The  wit  of  the  woman  sufficed  to  engage 
In  the  woman's  gay  court  the  first  n?°n 

of  the  age. 
Some  had  genius;  and  all,  wealth  of 

mind  to  confer 
On  the  world  :  but  that  wealth  was  not 

lavished  for  her. 
For  the  genius  of  man,  though  so  human 

indeed, 
When  called  out  to  man's  help  by  some 

great  human  need, 
The  right  to  a  man's  chance  acquaintance 

refuses 

To  use  what  it  hoards  for  mankind's  no- 
bler uses. 
Genius  touches  the  world  at  but  one 

point  alone 
Of  that  spacious  circumference,  never 

quite  known 
To  the  world  :  all  the  infinite  number  of 

lines 

That  radiate  thither  a  mere  point  com- 
bines, 
But  one  only,  —  some  central  affection 

apart 
From  the  reach  of  the  world,  in  which 

Genius  is  Heart, 
And   love,    life's   fine   centre,    includes 

heart  and  mind. 
And  therefore  it  was  that  Lucile  sighed 

to  find 
Men  of  genius  appear,  one  and  all  in 

her  ken, 
When  they  stooped  themselves  to  it,  as 

mere  clever  men  ; 
Artists,  statesmen,   and  they  in  whose 

works  are  unfurled 
Worlds  new-fashioned  for  man,  as  mere 

men  of  the  world. 
And  so,  as  alone  now  she  stood,  in  the 

sight 
Of  the  sunset  of  youth,  with  her  face 

from  the  light, 
And  watched  her  own  shadow  grow  long 

at  her  feet, 
As  though  stretched  out,  the  shade  of 

some  other  to  meet, 
Che  woman  felt  homeless  and  childless  : 

•    in  scorn 
She  seemed   mocked   by  the  voices  of 
children  unborn  ; 


LUCILE. 


83 


And  when  from  these  sombre  reflections 

away 
She  turned,   with  a  sigh,  to  that  gay 

world,  more  gay 
For  her  presence  within  it,  she  knew 

herself  friendless ; 
That  her  path  led  from  peace,  and  that 

path  appeared  endless  ! 
That  even  her  beauty  had  been  but  a 

snare, 
And  her  wit  sharpened  only  the  edge  of 

despair. 


XVIII. 

With  a  face  all  transfigured  and  flushed 

by  surprise, 
Alfred  turned  to   Lucile.     With  those 

deep  searching  eyes 
She  looked  into  his  own.     Not  a  word 

that  she  said, 
Not  a  look,  not  a  blush,  one  emotion 

betrayed. 
She   seemed  to  smile  through  him,  at 

something  beyond : 
When  she  answered  his  questions,  she 

seemed  to  respond 
To  some   voice    in   herself.      With   no 

trouble  descried, 
To   each  troubled   inquiry   she   calmly 

replied. 
Not  so  he.     At  the  sight  of  that  face 

back  again 

To  his  mind  came  the  ghost  of  a  long- 
stifled  pain, 
A  remembered  resentment,  half  checked 

by  a  wild 
And  relentful  regret  like  a  motherless 

child 
Softly  seeking  admittance,  with  plaintive 

appeal, 

To  the  heart  which  resisted  its  entrance. 

Lucile 

And  himself  thus,  however,  with  free- 
dom allowed 
To  old  friends,  talking  still  side  by  side, 

left  the  crowd 

By  the  crowd  unobserved.     Not  unno- 
ticed, however, 
By  the  Duke  and  Matilda.     Matilda  had 

never 
Seen  her  husband's  new  friend. 

She  had  followed  by  chance, 
Or  by  instinct,  the  sudden  half-menacing 

glance 
Which   the   Duke,   when   he  witnessed 

their  meeting,  had  turned 


On  Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred  ;  and,  scared, 

she  discerned 
On  his  features  the  shade  of  a  gloom  so 

profound 
That  she  shuddered  instinctively.     Deaf 

to  the  sound 
Of  her  voice,  to  some  startled  inquiry  of 

hers 
He  replied  not,  but  murmured,  "  Lucile 

de  Nevers 
Once  again  then  ?   so  be  it ! "     In  the 

mind  of  that  man, 
At  that   moment,   there   shaped  itself 

vaguely  the  plan 
Of  a  purpose  malignant  and  dark,  such 

alone 
(To  his  own  secret  heart  but  imperfectly 

shown) 
As  could  spring  from  the  cloudy,  fierce 

chaos  of  thought 
By  which  all  his  nature  to  tumult  was 

wrought. 

XIX. 

"  So  ! "  he  thought,  "  they  meet  thus  : 

and  reweave  the  old  charm  ! 
And  she  hangs  on  his  voice,  and  she 

leans  on  his  arm, 
And  she  heeds  me  not,  seeks  me  not, 

recks  not  of  me  ! 
0,  what  if  I  showed  her  that  I,  too,  can 

be 
Loved  by  one  —  her  own  rival  —  more 

fair  and  more  young  ? " 
The   serpent   rose   in   him :    a  serpent 

which,  stung, 
Sought  to  sting. 

Each  unconscious,  indeed,  of  the  eye 
Fixed  upon  them,  Lucile  and  my  lord 

sauntered  by, 
In  converse  which  seemed  to  be  earnest. 

A  smile 
Now  and  then  seemed  to  show  where  their 

thoughts  touched.     Meanwhile 
The  muse  of  this  story,  convinced  that 

they  need  her, 
To  the  Duke  and  Matilda  returns,  gentle 

Reader. 

xx. 
The  Duke,  with  that  soil  of  aggressive 

false  praise 
Which  is  meant  a  resentful  remonstrance 

to  raise 
From  a  listener  (as  sometimes  a  judge, 

just  before 
He  pulls  down  the  black  cap,  very  gently 

goes  o'er 


LUC1LE. 


The  case  for  the  prisoner,  and  deals  ten- 
derly 
\Vitli  the  man  he  is  minded  to  hang  by 

and  by), 
H;nl  referred  to  Lucile,  and  then  stopped 

to  detect 

In  the  face  of  Matilda  the  growing  effect 
Of  the  words  he  had  dropped.     There  's 

no  weapon  that  slays 
Its  victim  so  surely  (if  well  aimed)  as 

praise. 
Thus,    a   pause   on  their  converse  had 

fallen  :  and  now 

Each  was  silent,  preoccupied,  thoughtful. 
You  know 

There   are  moments  when  silence,  pro- 
longed and  unbroken, 
More  expressive  may  be  than  all  words 

ever  spoken. 
It  is  when  the  heart  has  an  instinct  of 

what 
In  the  heart  of  another  is  passing.     And 

that 
In  the  heart  of  Matilda,  what  was  it  ? 

Whence  came 
To  her  cheek  on  a  sudden  that  tremulous 

flame  ? 
What  weighed  down  her  head  ? 

All  your  eye  could  discover 
Was  the  fact  that  Matilda  was  troubled. 

Moreover 
That  trouble  the  Duke's  presence  seemed 

to  renew. 
She,  however,  broke  silence,  the  first  of 

the  two. 
The  Duke  was  too  prudent  to  shatter  the 

spell 
Of  a  silence  which  suited  his  purpose  so 

well. 
She  was  plucking  the  leaves  from  a  pale 

blush  rose  blossom 
Which  had  fallen  from  the  nosegay  she 

wore  in  her  bosom. 
"  This  poor  flower,"  she  said,  "seems  it 

not  out  of  place 
In  this  hot,  lamplit  air,  with  its  fresh, 

fragile  grace  ?" 
She  bent  her  head  low  as  she   spoke. 

With  a  smile 
The   Duke  watched    her  caressing  the 

leaves  all  the  while, 
And  continued  on  his  side  the  silence. 

He  knew 
This  would  force   his  companion  their 

talk  to  renew 
At  the  point  that  he  wished  ;  and  Matilda 

divined 


The  significant  pause  with  new  trouble 

of  mind. 
She  lifted  one  moment  her  head ;  but 

her  look 
Encountered  the  ardent  regard  of  the 

Duke, 
And    dropped    back    on    her    floweret 

abashed.     Then,  still  seeking 
The   assurance  she  fancied  she  shown  1 

him  by  speaking, 
She  conceived  herself  safe  in  adopting 

again 
The  theme  she  should  most  have  avoided 

just  then. 

XXI. 

"Duke,"  she  said,  .  .  .  and  she  felt,  as 

she  spoke,  her  cheek  burned, 
"You  know,  then,  this  .  .  .  lady?" 

"Too  well  !"  he  returned. 

MATILDA. 

True  ;  you  drew  with  emotion  her  por- 
trait just  now. 

Luvois. 
With  emotion  ? 

MATILDA. 

Yes,  yes  !  you  described  her,  I  know, 
As  possessed  of  a  charm  all  unrivalled. 

Luvois. 

Alas! 
You   mistook    me    completely !      You, 

madam,  surpass 
This  lady  as  moonlight  does  lamplight ; 

as  youth 

Surpasses  its  best  imitations  ;  as  truth 
The  fairest  of  falsehoods  surpasses  ;  as 

nature 
Surpasses  art's  masterpiece  ;  ay,  as  the 

creature 
Fresh  and  pure  in  its  native  adornment 

surpasses 
All   the   charms  got  by  heart  at   the 

world's  looking-glasses ! 

"Yet  you  said,"  —  she  continued  with 

some  trepidation, 
"That  you  quite  comprehended"  ...  a 

slight  hesitation 
Shook  the  sentence,  ...  "a  passion  so 

strong  as  " 

Ltrvois. 

True,  true ! 


LTJCILE. 


85 


But  not  in  a  man  that  had  once  looked 
at  you. 

Nor  can  I  conceive,  or  excuse,  or  ... 

"  Hush,  hush  !  " 

She  broke  in,  all  more  fair  for  one  inno- 
cent blush. 

"Between  man  and  woman  these  things 
differ  so  ! 

It  may  be  that  the  world  pardons  .  .  . 
(how  should  I  know  ?) 

In  you  what  it  visits  on  us  ;  or  't  is  true, 

It  may  be,  that  we  women  are  better 
than  you." 

LTJVOIS. 

Who  denies  it  ?  Yet,  madam,  once  more 
you  mistake. 

The  world,  in  its  judgment,  some  differ- 
ence may  make 

'Twixt  the  man  and  the  woman,  so  far 
as  respects 

Its  social  enactments  ;  but  not  as  affects 

The  one  sentiment  which,  it  were  easy 
to  prove, 

Is  the  sole  law  we  look  to  the  moment 
we  love. 

MATILDA. 
That  may  be.     Yet  I  think  I  should  be 

less  severe. 
Although  so  inexperienced  in  such  things, 

I  fear 
I   have  learned   that  the  heart  cannot 

always  repress 
Or  account  for  the  feelings  which  sway 

it. 

"Yes  !   yes  ! 
That  is  too  true,  indeed  !  "  .  .  .  the  Duke 

sighed. 

And  again 
For  one  moment  in  silence  continued 

the  twain. 

XXII. 
At  length  the  Duke  slowly,  as  though 

he  had  needed 
All  this  time  to  repress  his  emotions, 

proceeded  : 
' '  And  yet !  .  .  .  what  avails,   then,  to 

woman  the  gift 

Of  a  beauty  like  yours,  if  it  cannot  uplift 
Her  heart  from  the  reach  of  one  doubt, 

one  despair, 
One   pang  of  wronged  love,   to  which 

women  less  fair 
Are  exposed,  when  they  love  ?  V 

a  quick  change  of  tone, 


As  though  by  resentment  impelled,  he 
went  on  :  — 

"The  name  that  you  bear,  it  is  whis- 
pered, you  took 

From  love,  not  convention.  Well,  lady, 
.  .  .  that  look 

So  excited,  so  keen,  on  the  face  you 
must  know 

Throughout  all  its  expressions,  —  that 
rapturous  glow  — 

Those  eloquent  features  —  significant 
eyes  — 

Which  that  pale  woman  sees,  yet  be- 
trays no  surprise," 

(He  pointed  his  hand  as  he  spoke  to  the 
door, 

Fixing  with  it  Lucile  and  Lord  Alfred,) 
.  .  .  "before, 

Have  you  ever  once  seen  what  just  now 
you  may  view 

In  that  face  so  familiar  ?  .  .  .  no,  lady, 
't  is  new. 

Young,  lovely,  and  loving,  no  doubt,  as 
you  are, 

Are  you  loved  ? "  .  .  . 

XXIII. 

He  looked  at  her  —  paused  —  felt  if 

thus  far 
The  ground  held  yet.     The  ardor  with 

which  he  had  spoken, 
This  close,  rapid  question,  thus  suddenly 

broken, 

Inspired  in  Matilda  a  vague  sense  of  fear, 
As  though  some  indefinite  danger  were 

near. 
With  composure,  however,  at  once  she 

replied  :  — 
V  'T  is  three  years  since  the  day  when  I 

first  was  a  bride, 
And  my  husband  I  never  had  cause  to 

suspect ; 
Nor  ever  have  stooped,  sir,  such  cause 

to  detect. 
Yet  if  in  his  looks  or  his  acts  I  should 

see  — 
See,  or  fancy  —  some  moment's  oblivion 

of  me, 
I  trust  that  I  too  should  forget  it,  —  for 

you 
Must  have  seen  that  my  heart  is  my 

husband's." 

The  hue 
On  her  cheek,  with  the  effort  wherewith 

to  the  Duke 

She  had  uttered  this  vague  and  half- 
frightened  rebuke, 


LTJCILE. 


Was  white  as  the  rose  in  her  hand.     The 

last  word 
Seemed  to  die  on  her  lip,  and  could 

scarcely  be  heard. 
There  \va.s  silence  again. 

A  great  step  had  been  made 
By  the  Duke  in  the  words  he  that  even- 
ing had  said. 
There,  half  drowned  by  the  music,  Ma- 

tilda,  that  night, 
Had     listened, — long    listened, — no 

doubt,  in  despite 
Of  herself,  to  a  voice  she  should  never 

have  heard, 
And  her  heart  by  that  voice  had  been 

troubled  and  stirred. 
And  so,  having  suffered  in  silence  his 

eye 
To  fathom  her  own,  he  resumed,  with  a 

sigh: 

XXIV. 

"  Will  you  suffer  me,  lady,  your  thoughts 
to  invade 

By  disclosing  my  own  ?    The  position," 
he  said, 

"  In  which  we  so  strangely  seem  placed 
may  excuse 

The  frankness  and  force  of  the  words 
which  I  use. 

You  say  that  your  heart  is  your  hus- 
band's.    You  say 

That  you  love  him.     You  think  so,  of 
course,  lady  .  .  .  nay, 

Such  a  love,  I  admit,  were  a  merit,  no 
doubt. 

But,  trust  me,  no  true  love  there  can  be 
without 

Its  dread  penalty  —  jealousy. 

"  Well,  do  not  start  ! 

Until  now,  —  either  thanks  to  a  singu- 
lar art 

Of  supreme  self-control,  you  have  held 
them  all  down 

Unrevealed    in    your    heart,  —  or    you 
never  have  known 

Even  one  of  those  fierce  irresistible  pangs 

Which  deep  passion  engenders  ;  that  an- 
guish which  hangs 

On  the  heart  like  a  nightmare,  by  jeal- 
ousy bred. 

But  if,  lady,  the  love  you  describe,  in 
the  bed 

Of  a  blissful  security  thus  hath  reposed 

1'iidisturlied  with  mild  eyelids  on  hap- 
piness closeil, 

Were  it  not  to  expose  to  a  peril  unjust, 


And  most  cruel,  that  happy  repose  you 

so  trust 
To  meet,  to  receive,  and,  indeed,  it  may 

be, 
For  how  long  I  know  not,  continue  to 

see 
A  woman  whose  place  rivals  yours  in 

the  life 
And  the  heart  which  not  only  your  title 

of  wife, 

But  also  (forgive  me  !)  your  beauty  alone, 
Should  have  made  wholly  yours  ?  —  You, 

who  gave  all  your  own  ! 
Reflect !  —  't  is  the  peace  of  existence 

you  stake 
On  the  turn  of  a  die.     And  for  whose 

—  for  his  sake  ? 

While  you  witness  this  woman,  the  false 

point  of  view 
From  which  she  must  now  be  regarded 

by  you 

Will  exaggerate  to  you,  whatever  they  be, 
The  charms  I  admit  she  possesses.     To 

me 
They  are  trivial  indeed ;   yet  to  your 

eyes,  I  fear 
And  foresee,  they  will  true  and  intrinsic 

appear. 
Self-unconscious,  and  sweetly  unable  to 

guess 
How  more  lovely  by  far  is  the  grace  you 

possess, 
You  will  wrong  your  own  beauty.     The 

graces  of  art, 
You  wul  take  for  the  natural  charm  of 

the  heart ; 
Studied  manners,  the  brilliant  and  bold 

repartee, 

Will  too  soon  in  that  fatal  comparison  be 
To  your  fancy  more  fair  than  the  sweet 

timid  sense 
Which,   in   shrinking,   betrays  its  own 

best  eloquence. 
0  then,  lady,  then,  you  will  feel  in  your 

heart 
The  poisonous  pain  of  a  fierce  jealous 

dart  ! 
While    you   see   her,    yourself   you  no 

longer  will  see,  — 
You  will  hear  her,  and  hear  not  yourself, 

—  you  will  be 

Unhappy ;   unhappy,  because   you  will 

deem 
Your  own   power  less  great   than   her 

power  will  seem. 
And  I  shall  not  be  by  your  side,  day  by 


LUCILE. 


In  despite  of  your  noble  displeasure,  to 

say 
'  You  are  fairer  than  she,  as  the  star  is 

more  fair 
Than  the  diamond,  the  brightest  that 

beauty  can  wear  ! '  " 

XXV. 

This  appeal,  both  by  looks  and  by  lan- 
guage, increased 

The  trouble  Matilda  felt  grow  in  her 
breast. 

Still  she  spoke  with  what  calmness  she 
could :  — 

"  Sir,  the  while 

I  thank  you,"  she  said,  with  a  faint 
scornful  smile, 

"  For  your  fervor  in  painting  my  fancied 
distress  : 

Allow  me  the  right  some  surprise  to  ex- 
press 

At  the  zeal  you  betray  in  disclosing  to 
me 

The  possible  depth  of  my  own  misery." 

"That  zeal  would  not  startle  you, 
madam,"  he  said, 

"  Could  you  read  in  my  heart,  as  myself 
I  have  read, 

The  peculiar  interest  which  causes  that 
zeal  —  " 

Matilda  her  terror  no  more  could  con- 
ceal. 

"  Duke,"  she  answered  in  accents  short, 
cold,  and  severe, 

As  she  rose  from  her  seat,  "  I  continue 
to  hear  ; 

But  permit  me  to  say,  I  no  more  under- 
stand. " 

"  Forgive  ! "  with  a  nervous  appeal  of 

the  hand, 
And  a  well-feigned  confusion  of  voice 

and  of  look, 
"  Forgive,  0,  forgive  me  !  "  at  once  cried 

the  Duke, 
"  I  forgot  that  you  know  me  so  slightly. 

Your  leave 
I  entreat  (from  your  anger  those  words 

to  retrieve) 
For  one  moment  to  speak  of  myself,  — 

for  I  think 
That  you  wrong  me  — 

His  voice  as  in  pain  seemed  to  sink  ; 
And  tears  in  his  eyes,  as  he  lifted  them, 

glistened. 


XXTI. 

Matilda,  despite  of  herself,  sat  and  lis- 
tened. 


XXVII. 

"  Beneath  an  exterior  which  seems,  and 

may  be, 
Worldly,   frivolous,   careless,   my  heart 

hides  in  me," 
He  continued,  "  a  sorrow  which  draws 

me  to  side 
With  all  things  that  suffer.     Nay,  laugh 

not,"  he  cried, 
"  At  so  strange  an  avowal. 

"  I  seek  at  a  ball, 
For  instance,  —  the  beauty  admired  by 

all? 
No  !  some  plain,  insignificant  creature, 

who  sits 
Scorned  of  course  by  the  beauties,  and 

shunned  by  the  wits. 
All  the  world  is  accustomed  to  wound, 

or  neglect, 

Or  oppress,  claims  my  heart  and  com- 
mands my  respect. 

No   Quixote,    I    do   not    affect  to   be- 
long, 
I  admit,  to  those  chartered  redressers  of 

wrong ; 
But  I  seek  to  console,  where  I  can.     'T  is 

a  part 
Not  brilliant,  I  own,  yet  its  joys  bring 

no  smart." 
These  trite  words,  from  the  tone  which 

he  gave  them,  received 
An  appearance  of  truth,   which   might 

well  be  believed 

By  a  heart  shrewder  yet  than  Matilda's. 

And  so 
He  continued  .  .  .  "Olady  !  alas,  could 

you  know 
What  injustice  and  wrong  in  this  world 

I  have  seen  ! 
How  many  a  woman,  believed  to  have 

been 
Without  a  regret,  I  have  known  turn 

aside 
To  burst  into  heart-broken  tears  unde- 

scried  ! 
On  how  many  a  lip  have  I  witnessed  the 

smile 
Which  but  hid  what  was  breaking  the 

poor  heart  the  while  !  " 
Said  Matilda,  "Your  life,  it  would  seem, 

then,  must  be 
One  long  act  of  devotion," 


88 


LUCILE. 


"  Perhaps  so,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  at  least  that  devotion  small  merit 

can  boast, 
For  one  day  may  yet  come,  —  if  one  day 

at  the  most,  — 
When,  perceiving  at  last  all  the  dill'er- 

ence  —  how  great !  — 
Twixt  the  heart  that  neglects  and  the 

heart  that  can  wait, 
'Twixt  the  natures  that  pity,  the  natures 

that  pain, 
Some   woman,    that    else    might    have 

passed  in  disdain 
Or  indifference  by  me,  — in  passing  that 

day 
Might  pause  with  a  word  or  a  smile  to 

repay 
This  devotion,  —  and  then  "... 


XXVIII. 

To  Matilda's  relief 

At  that  moment  her  husband  approached. 

With  some  grief 

I  must  own  that  her  welcome,  perchance, 

was  expressed 
The  more  eagerly  just  for  one  twinge  in 

her  breast 
Of  a  conscience  disturbed,  and  her  smile 

not  less  warm, 
Though  she  saw  the  Comtesse  de  Nevers 

on  his  arm. 

The  Duke  turned  and  adjusted  his  collar. 
Thought  he, 

"  Good  !  the  gods  fight  my  battle  to- 
night.    I  foresee 
That  the  family  doctor's  the  part  I 

must  play. 
Very  well !  but  the  patients  my  visits 

shall  pay." 
Lord  Alfred  presented   Lucile   to    his 

wife  ; 
And  Matilda,  repressing  with  effort  the 

strife 
Of  emotions  which  made  her  voice  shake, 

murmured  low 
Some    faint,   troubled    greeting.      The 

Duke,  with  a  bow 

Which  betokened  a  distant  defiance,  re- 
plied 
To  Lucile's  startled  cry,  as  surprised  she 

descried 
Her  former  gay  wooer.     Anon,  with  the 

grace 
Of  that  kindness  which   seeks  to  win 

kindness,  her  place 


She  assumed  by  Matilda,  unconscious, 
perchance, 

Or  resolved   not  to   notice,    the    half- 

frightened  glance 
That  followed  that  movement. 

The  Duke  to  his  feet 
Arose;  and,  in  silence,  reliiniui.sliril  lii-s 

seat. 
One  must  own  that  the  moment  was 

awkward  for  all ; 
But  nevertheless,  before  long,  the  sti-;un/e 

thrall 
Of  Lucile's  gracious  tact  was  bjr  every 

one  felt, 

And  from  each  the  reserve  seemed,  re- 
luctant, to  melt  ; 
Thus,  conversing  together,  the  whole  of 

the  four 
Through  the  crowd  sauntered,  smiling. 

XXIX. 

Approaching  the  door, 

Eugene  de  Luvois,  who  had  fallen  be- 
hind, 

By  Lucile,   after  some  hesitation,   was 
joined 

With   a  gesture  of  gentle  and  kindly 
appeal 

Which  appeared  to  imply,  without  words, 
' '  Let  us  feel 

That  the  friendship  between  us  in  years 
that  are«fled, 

Has  survived  one  mad  moment  forgot- 
ten," she  said, 

"  You  remain,  Duke,  at  Ems?" 

He  turned  on  her  a  look 

Of  frigid,  resentful,  and  sullen  rebuke  ; 

And  then,  with  a  more  than  significant 
glance 

At  Matilda,  maliciously  answered,  "Per- 
chance 

I  have  here  an  attraction.     And  you  ? " 
he  returned. 

Lucile's  eyes  had  followed  his  own,  and 
discerned 

The  boast  they  implied. 

He  repeated,  "  And  you  ? " 

And,    still   watching   Matilda,  she   an- 
swered, "  I  too." 

And  he  thought,  as  with  that  word  she 
left  him,  she  sighed. 

The  next  moment  her  place  she  resumed 
by  the  side 

Of  Matilda  ;  and  soon  they  shook  hands 
at  the  gate 

Of  the  selfsame  hotel. 


"LORD  ALFRED  PRESENTED  LUCILE  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


LTICILE. 


89 


XXX. 

One  depressed,  one  elate, 
The  Duke  and  Lord  Alfred  again,  through 

the  glooms 
Of  the  thick  linden  alley,  returned  to 

the  Booms. 
His  cigar  each  had  lighted,  a  moment 

before, 
At  the  inn,  as  they  turned,  arm-in-arm, 

from  the  door. 
Ems  cigars  do  not  cheer  a  man's  spirits, 

experto 

(Me  miserum  quoties .')  crede  Roberto. 
In  silence,  awhile,  they  walked  onward. 

At  last 
The   Duke's  thoughts  to  language  half 

consciously  passed. 

Luvois. 
Once  more !  yet  once  more  ! 

ALFRED. 

What? 

Luvois. 

We  meet  her,  once  more, 
The  woman  for  whom  we  two  mad  men 

of  yore 
(Laugh,  mo?!,  cher  Alfred,  laugh  !)  were 

about  to  destroy 
Each  the  other ! 

ALFRED. 

It  is  not  with  laughter  that  I 
Raise  the  ghost  of  that  once  troubled 

time.     Say  !  can  you 
Recall  it  with  coolness   and   quietude 
now? 

Luvois. 
Now  ?    yes !    I,   man  cher,    am  a  true 

Parisien  : 
Now,  the  red  revolution,  the  tocsin,  and 

then 
The  dance  and  the  play.     I  am  now  at 

the  play. 

ALFRED. 

At  the  play,  are  you  now  ?  Then  per- 
chance I  now  may 

Presume,  Duke,  to  ask  you  what,  ever 
until 

Such  a  moment,  I  waited  .  .  . 

Luvois. 

Oh  !  ask  what  you  will. 


Fraiicjeu  !  on  the  table  my  cards  I  spread 

out. 
Ask! 

ALFRED. 
Duke,  you  were  called  to  a  meeting 

(no  doubt 
You  remember  it  yet)  with  Lucile.     It 

was  night 
When  you  went ;  and  before  you  returned 

it  was  light. 
We  met :  you  accosted  me  then  with  a 

brow 
Bright  with  triumph  :  your  words  (you 

remember  them  now  ?) 
Were  "  Let  us  be  friends  !  " 


Luvois. 


Well? 


ALFRED. 

How  then,  after  that, 
Can  you  and  she  meet  as  acquaintances  ? 

Luvois. 

What! 
Did  she  not  then,  herself,  the  Comtesse 

de  Nevers, 

Solve  your  riddle  to-night  with  those  soft 
lips  of  hers  ? 

ALFRED. 

In  our  converse  to-night  we  avoided  the 
past. 

But  the  question  I  ask  should  be  an- 
swered at  last  : 

By  you,  if  you  will ;  if  you  will  not,  by 
her. 

Luvois. 
Indeed  ?  but  that  question,  milord,  can 

it  stir 
Such  an  interest  in  you,  if  your  passion 

be  o'er  ? 

ALFRED. 

Yes.  Esteem  may  remain,  although  love 
be  no  more. 

Lucile  asked  me,  this  night,  to  my  wife 
(understand 

To  my  wife  !)  to  present  her.  I  did  so. 
Her  hand 

Has  clasped  that  of  Matilda.  We  gen- 
tlemen owe 

Respect  to  the  name  that  is  ours  :  and, 
if  so, 


90 


LUCILE. 


To  the  woman  that  bears  it  a  twofold 

IWMCfc 

Answer,  Due  de  Luvois !  Did  Lucile 
then  rrjivt 

The  proffer  you  made  of  your  hand  and 
your  name  ? 

Or  did  you  on  her  love  then  relinquish 
a  claim 

Urged  before  ?  I  ask  bluntly  this  ques- 
tion, because 

My  title  to  do  so  is  clear  by  the  laws 

That  all  gentlemen  honor.  Make  only 
one  sign 

That  you  know  of  Lucile  de  Nevers  aught, 
in  fine, 

For  which,  if  your  own  virgin  sister 
were  by, 

From  Lucile  you  would  shield  her  ac- 
quaintance, and  I 

And  Matilda  leave  Ems  on  the  morrow. 


XXXI. 

The  Duke 
Hesitated  and   paused.     He  could  tell, 

by  the  look 
Of  the  man  at  his  side,  that  he  meant 

what  he  said, 
And  there  flashed  in  a  moment  these 

thoughts  through  his  head  : 
"  Leave  Ems  !  would  that  suit  me  ?  no  ! 

that  were  again 
To  mar  all.     And  besides,  if  I  do  not 

explain, 
She  herself  will .  .  .  et  puis,  il  a  raison  ; 

on  r.st 
Gentilhomme  avant  tout  I "     He  replied 

therefore, 

"Nay  ! 

Madame  de  Nevers  had  rejected  me.     I, 
In  those  days,  I  was  mad  ;  and  in  some 

mad  reply 

I  threatened  the  life  of  the  rival  to  whom 
That  rejection   was   due,  I   was  led  to 

presume. 
She  feared  for  his  life ;  and  the  letter 

which  then 
She  wrote  me,  I  showed  you ;  we  met  : 

and  again 
My  hand  was  refused,  and  my  love  was 

denied, 
And  the  glance  you  mistook   was  the 

vizard  which  Pride 
Lends  to  Humiliation. 

"  And  so,"  half  in  jest, 
He  went  on,  "  in  this  best  world,  't  is 

all  for  the  best ; 


You  are  wedded,  (blessed  Englishman.  0 

wedded  to  one 
Whose  past  can  be  called  into  question 

l>y  none : 
And    I   (fickle    Frenchman  !)   can    still 

laugh  to  feel 
I  am  lord  of  myself,  and  the  Mode :  and 

Lucile 
Still  shines  from  her  pedestal,  frigid  and 

fair 
As  yon  German  moon  o'er  the  linden-tops 

there  ! 

A  Dian  in  marble  that  scorns  any  troth 
With  the  little  love-gods,  whom  I  thank 

for  us  both, 

While  she  smiles  from  her  lonely  Olym- 
pus apart, 
That  her  arrows  are  marble  as  well  as 

her  heart. 
Stay  at  Ems,  Alfred  Vargrave  ! " 

XXXII. 

The  Duke,  with  a  smile, 
Turned  and  entered  the  Rooms  which, 

thus  talking,  meanwhile, 
They  had  reached. 

XXXIII. 

Alfred  Vargrave  strode  on  (overthrown 
Heart  and  mind  !)  in  the  darkness  be- 
wildered, alone  : 
"And   so,"  to   himself  did  he  mutter, 

"  and  so 
'T  was  to  rescue  my  life,  gentle  spirit  ! 

and,  oh, 
For  this  did  I  doubt  her  ?  .  .  .  a  light 

word  —  a  look  — 
The  mistake  of  a  moment !  ...  for  this 

I  forsook  — 
For  this  ?     Pardon,  pardon,  Lucile  !  O 

Lucile  ! " 
Thought  and  memory  rang,  like  a  funeral 

peal, 
Weary  changes  on  one  dirge-like  note 

through  his  brain, 
As  he  strayed  down  the  darkness. 

XXXIV. 

Re-entering  again 
The  Casino,  the  Duke  smiled.    He  turned 

to  roulette, 
And  sat  down,  and  played  fast,  and  lost 

largely,  and  yet 
He  still   smiled  :    night   deepened :   he 

played  his  last  number  : 
Went  honif  :  and  soon  slept  :  and  still 

smiled  in  his  slumber. 


LUCILE. 


91 


XXXV. 

In  his  desolate  Maxims,  La  Rochefou- 
cauld wrote, 
"  In  the  grief  or  mischance  of  a  friend 

you  may  note, 
There  is  something  which  always  gives 

pleasure." 

Alas  ! 
That  reflection  fell  short  of  the  truth  as 

it  was. 
La  Rochefoucauld  might  have  as  truly 

set  down,  — 
"Xo   misfortune,    but  what  some  one 

turns  to  his  own 
Advantage  its  mischief :  no  sorrow,  but 

of  it 

There  ever  is  somebody  ready  to  profit  : 
No  affliction  without  its  stock-jobbers, 

who  all 
Gamble,  speculate,  play  on  the  rise  and 

the  fall 
Of  another  man's  heart,  and  make  traffic 

in  it." 
Burn  thy  book,  0  La  Rochefoucauld  ! 

Fool !  one  man's  wit 
All    men's    selfishness    how    should  it 

fathom  ? 

0  sage, 
Dost  thou  satirize  Nature  ? 

She  laughs  at  thy  page. 


CANTO  II. 

i. 

COUSIN  JOHN  to  COUSIN  ALFRED. 

"LONDON,  18—. 

"  MY  DEAR  ALFRED  : 

Your  last  letters  put  me  in  pain. 

This  contempt  of  existence,  this  listless 
disdain 

Of  your  own  life,  —  its  joys  and  its  du- 
ties, —  the  deuce 

Take  my  wits  if  they  find  for  it  half  an 
excuse  ! 

I    wish  that    some    Frenchman   would 
shoot  off  your  leg, 

And  compel  you  to  stump  through  the 
world  on  a  peg. 

I  wish  that  you  had,  like  myself,  (more 's 
the  pity  ! ) 

To  sit  seven  hours  on  this  cursed  com- 
mittee. 

I  wish  that  you  knew,  sir,  how  salt  is 
the  bread 


Of  another  —  (what  is  it  that  Dante  has 

said  ?) 
And  the  trouble  of  other  men's  stairs. 

In  a  word, 

I  wish  fate  had  some  real  affliction  con- 
ferred 
On  your  whimsical  self,  that,  at  least, 

you  had  cause 
For  neglecting  life's  duties,  and  damning 

its  laws  ! 
This  pressure  against  all  the  purpose  of 

life, 
This   self-ebullition,   and   ferment,   and 

strife, 
Betokened,-  I  grant  that  it  may  be  in 

truth, 
The  richness  and  strength  of  the  new 

wine  of  youth. 

But  if,  when  the  wine  should  have  mel- 
lowed with  time, 
Being  bottled  and  binned,  to  a  flavor 

sublime 
It  retains  the  same  acrid,  incongruous 

taste, 
"Why,  the  sooner  to  throw  it  away  that 

we  haste 
The  better,  I  take  it.     And  this  vice  of 

snarling, 

Self-love's  little  lapdog,  the  overfed  dar- 
ling 

Of  a  hypochondriacal  fancy  appears, 
To  my  thinking,  at  least,  in  a  man  of 

your  years, 
At  the  midnoon  of  manhood  with  plenty 

to  do, 

And  every  incentive  for  doing  it  too,  — 
With  the  duties  of  life  just  sufficiently 

pressing 
For  prayer,  and  of  joys  more  than  most 

men  for  blessing  ; 
With  a  pretty  young  wife,  and  a  pretty 

full  purse,  — 

Like  poltroonery,  puerile  truly,  or  worse  ! 
I  wish  I  could  get  you  at  least  to  agree 
To  take  life  as  it  is,  and  consider  with  me, 
If  it  be  not  all  smiles,  that  it  is  not  all 

sneers  ; 
It  admits  honest  laughter,  and  needs 

honest  tears. 
Do  you  think  none  have  known   but 

yourself  all  the  pain 
Of  hopes  that  retreat,  and  regrets  that 

remain  ? 
And  all  the  wide  distance  fate  fixes,  no 

doubt, 
'Twixt  the  life  that's  within,  and  the 

life  that  'a  without  ? 


92 


LUCILE. 


What  one  of  us  finds  the  world  just  as 

he  likes  ? 
Or  gets  what  he  wants  when  he  wants 

it  ?    Or  strikes 
Without    missing    tin-    tiling    that    he 

strikes  at  the  lir.M  .' 
Or     walks     without     stumbling?      Or 

quenches  his  thirst 
At  one   draught  ?     Bah  !     I  tell  you  ! 

I,  bachelor  John, 
Have  had  griefs  of  my  own.     But  what 

then  ?     I  push  on 
All  the  faster  perchance  that  I  yet  feel 

the  pain 
Of  my  last  fall,  albeit  I  may  stumble 

again. 
God  means  every  man  to  be  happy,  be 

sure. 
He  sends  us  no  sorrows  that  have  not 

some  cure. 

Our  duty  down  here  is  to  do,  not  to  know. 
Live  as  though  life  were  earnest,  and 

life  will  be  so. 

Let  each  moment,  like  Time's  last  am- 
bassador, come  : 
It  will  wait  to  deliver  its  message  ;  and 

some 
Sort  of  answer  it  merits.     It  is  not  the 

deed 
A  man  does,  but  the  way  that  he  does 

it,  should  plead 

For  the  man's  compensation  in  doing  it. 

"Here, 
My  next  neighbor 's  a  man  with  twelve 

thousand  a  year, 
Who  deems  that  life  has  not  a  pastime 

more  pleasant 
Than  to  follow  a  fox  or  to  slaughter  a 

pheasant. 
Yet  this  fellow  goes  through  a  contested 

election, 
Lives  in  London,  and  sits,  like  the  soul 

of  dejection, 
All  the  day  through  upon  a  committee, 

and  late 
To  the  last,  every  night,  through  the 

dreary  debate, 
As  though  he  were  getting  each  speaker 

by  heart, 

Though   amongst   them   he   never  pre- 
sumes to  take  part. 
One  asks  himself  why,  without  murmur 

or  question, 
He  foregoes  all  his  tastes,  and  destroys 

his  digestion, 
For  a  labor  of  which  the  result  seems  so 

small. 


'The  man  is  ambitious,'  you  say.     Not 
at  all. 

He  has  just  sense  enough  to  be  fully 
aware 

That  he  never  can  hope  to  be  Premier, 
or  share 

The  renown  of  a  Tully ;  —  or  even  to 
hold 

A  subordinate  office.      He  is  not  so  bold 

As  to  fancy  the  House  for  ten  minutes 
would  bear 

With  patience  his  modest  opinions  to 
hear. 

'  But  he  wants  something  ! ' 

"  What !  with  twelve  thousand  a  year? 

What  could  Government  give  him  would 
be  half  so  dear 

To  his  heart  as  a  walk  with  a  dog  and  a 
gun 

Through  his  own  pheasant  woods,  or  a 
capital  run  ? 

'  No  ;  but  vanity  fills  out  the  emptiest 
brain  ; 

The  man  would  be  more  than  his  neigh- 
bors, 't  is  plain  ; 

And  the  drudgery  drearily  gone  through 
in  town 

Is  more  than  repaid  by  provincial  re- 
nown. 

Enough  if  some  Marchioness,  lively  and 
loose, 

Shall  have  eyed  him  with  passing  com- 
plaisance ;  the  goose, 

If  the  Fashion  to  him  open  one  of  its 
doors, 

As  proud  as  a  sultan,  returns  to  his 
boors. ' 

Wrong  again  !  if  you  think  so. 

"  For,  primo  ;  my  friend 

Is  the  head  of  a  family  known  from  one 
end 

Of  his  shire  to  the  other,  as  the  oldest ; 
and  therefore 

He  despises  fine  lords  and  fine  ladies. 
He  care  for 

A  peerage  ?    no,  truly  !      Secondo ;   he 
rarely 

Or  never  goes  out :  dines  at  Bellamy's 
sparely, 

And  abhors  what  you  call  the  gay  world. 
"Then,  I  ask, 

What  inspires,  and  consoles,  such  a  self- 
imposed  task 

As  the  life  of  this  man,  —  but  the  sense 
of  its  duty  ? 

And  I  swear  that  the  eyes  of  the  haugh- 
tiest beauty 


LUCILE. 


93 


Have  never  inspired  in  my  soul  that  in- 
tense, 

Reverential,  and  loving,  and  absolute 
sense 

Of  heartfelt  admiration  I  feel  for  this 
man, 

As  I  see  him  beside  me  ;  —  there,  wear- 
ing the  wan 

London  daylight  away,  on  his  humdrum 
committee  ; 

So  unconscious  of  all  that  awakens  my 

Pitv> 

And  wonder — and  worship,  I  might  say. 

"Tome 

There  seems  something  nobler  than  gen- 
ius to  be 

In  that  dull  patient  labor  no  genius  re- 
lieves, 

That  absence  of  all  joy  which  yet  never 
grieves ; 

The  humility  of  it  !  the  grandeur  withal ! 

The  sublimity  of  it !  And  yet,  should 
you  call 

The  man's  own  very  slow  apprehension 
to  this, 

He  would  ask,  with  a  stare,  what  sub- 
limity is  ! 

His  work  is  the  duty  to  which  he  was 
born  ; 

He  accepts  it,  without  ostentation  or 
scorn  : 

And  this  man  is  no  uncommon  type  (I 
thank  Heaven  !) 

Of  this  land's  common  men.  In  all 
other  lands,  even 

The  type's  self  is  wanting.  Perchance, 
't  is  the  reason 

That  Government  oscillates  ever  'twixt 
treason 

And  tyranny  elsewhere. 

' '  I  wander  away 

Too  far,  though,  from  what  I  was  wish- 
ing to  say. 

You,  for  instance,  read  Plato.  You 
know  that  the  soul 

Is  immortal ;  and  put  this  in  rhyme,  on 
the  whole, 

Very  well,  with  sublime  illustration. 
Man's  heart 

Is  a  mystery,  doubtless.  You  trace  it 
in  art :  — 

The  Greek  Psyche,  —  that 's  beauty,  — 
the  perfect  ideal. 

But  then  comes  the  imperfect,  perfecti- 
ble real, 

With  its  pained  aspiration  and  strife. 
In  those  pale 


Ill-drawn  virgins  of  Giotto  you  see  it 

prevail. 
You  have  studied  all  this.     Then,  the 

universe,  too, 
Is  not  a  mere  house  to  be  lived  in,  for 

you. 

Geology  opens  the  mind.  So  you  know 
Something  also  of  strata  and  fossils  • 

these  show 
The  bases  of  cosmical  structure  :  some 

mention 
Of  the  nebulous  theory  demands  your 

attention ; 
And  so  on. 

"  In  short,  it  is  clear  the  interior 
Of  your  brain,  my  dear  Alfred,  is  vastly 

superior 

In  fibre,  and  fulness,  and  function,  and  fire, 
To  that  of  my  poor  parliamentary  squire ; 
But  your  life  leaves  upon  me  (forgive 

me  this  heat 
Due  to  friendship)  the  sense  of  a  thing 

incomplete. 
You  fly  high.     But  what  is  it,  in  truth, 

you  fly  at  ? 
My  mind  is  not  satisfied  quite  as  to 

that. 

An  old  illustration  's  as  good  as  a  new, 
Provided  the  old  illustration  be  true. 
We  are  children.     Mere  kites  are  the 

fancies  we  fly, 

Though  we  marvel  to  see  them  ascend- 
ing so  high  ; 

Things    slight    in    themselves,  —  long- 
tailed  toys,  and  no  more. 
What  is  it  that  makes  the  kite  steadily 

soar 
Through  the  realms  where  the  cloud  and 

the  whirlwind  have  birth 
But  the  tie  that  attaches  the  kite  to  the 

earth? 
I  remember  the  lessons  of  childhood,  you 

see, 
And  the  hornbook  I  learned  on  my  poor 

mother's  knee. 

In  truth,  I  suspect  little  else  do  we  learn 
From  this  great  book  of  life,  which  so 

shrewdly  we  turn, 
Saving  how  to  apply,  with  a  good  or  bad 

grace, 
What  we  learned  in  the  hornbook  of 

childhood. 

"Your  case 
Is  exactly  in  point. 

"  Fly  your  kite,  if  you  please, 
Out  of  sight :  let  it  go  where  it  will,  on 

the  breeze  ; 


94 


LUCILE. 


F>ut  .-lit  not  tho  one  thread  by  which  it 

is  bound, 
l!c  it  never  so  high,  to  this  poor  human 

ground. 
No   man  is  the   absolute   lord  of  his 

life. 
You,   my  friend,   have  a  home,   and  a 

sweet  and  dear  wife. 
If  I  often  have  sighed  by  my  own  silent 

fire, 
With  the  sense  of  a  sometimes  recurring 

desire 
For  a  voice  sweet  and  low,  or  a  face  fond 

and  fair, 
Some  dull  winter  evening  to  solace  and 

share 
With  the  love  which  the  world  its  good 

children  allows 

To  shake  hands  with,  —  in  short,  a  le- 
gitimate spouse, 
This  thought  has  consoled  me  :  "At  least 

I  have  given 
For  my  own  good  behavior  no  hostage 

to  heaven." 
You    have,    though.      Forget  it    not ! 

faith,  if  you  do, 
I  would  rather  break  stones  on  a  road 

than  be  you. 

If  any  man  wilfully  injured,  or  led 
That  little  girl  wrong,   I  would  sit  on 

his  head, 
Even    though    you    yourself  were    the 

sinner  ! 

"And  this 
Leads  me  back   (do  not  take  it,  dear 

cousin,  amiss  !) 

To  the  matter  I  meant  to  have  men- 
tioned at  once, 
But  these  thoughts  put  it  out  of  my 

head  for  the  nonce. 
Of  all  the  preposterous  humbugs  and 

shams, 

Of  all  the  old  wolves  ever  taken  for  lambs, 
The  wolf  best  received  by  the  flock  he 

devours 
Is  that  uncle-in-law,  my  dear  Alfred,  of 

yours. 
At  least,  this  has  long  been  my  settled 

conviction, 
And  I  almost  would  venture  at  once  the 

prediction 
That  before  very  long  —  but  no  matter  ! 

I  trust 
For  his  sake  and  oar  own,  that  I  may 

be  unjust. 
But  Heaven  forgive  me,  if  cautious  I 

am  on 


The  score  of  such  men  as,  with  both 

God  and  Mammon, 
Seem  so  shrewdly  familiar. 

"  Neglect  not  this  warning. 
There  were  rumors  afloat  in  the  City  this 

morning 
Which  I  scarce  like  the  ?ound  of.     Who 

knows  1  would  he  fleece 
At  a  pinch,  the  old  hypocrite,  even  his 

own  niece  1 

For  the  sake  of  Matilda  I  cannot  impor- 
tune 
Your  attention  too  early.     If  all  your 

wife's  fortune 
Is  yet  in  the  hands  of  that  specious  old 

sinner, 
Who  would  dice  with  the  devil,  and  yet 

rise  up  winner, 
I  say,  lose  no  time  !  get  it  out  of  the 

grab 
Of  her  trustee  and  uncle,   Sir  Ridley 

MacNab. 
I  trust  those  deposits,  at  least,  are  drawn 

out, 
And  safe  at  this  moment  from  danger  or 

doubt. 

A  wink  is  as  good  as  a  nod  to  the  wise. 
Verbum,  sap.     I  admit  nothing  yet  jus- 
tifies 
My  mistrust ;   but  I  have  in  my  own 

mind  a  notion 
That  old  Ridley's  white  waistcoat,  and 

airs  of  devotion, 
Have  long  been  the  only  ostensible  cap- 

ital 
On  which  he  does  business.     If  so,  time 

must  sap  it  all, 
Sooner  or  later.     Look  sharp.     Do  not 

wait, 
Draw  at  once.     In  a  fortnight  it  may 

be  too  late. 
I  admit   I  know  nothing.     I  can   but 

suspect ; 
I  give  you  my  notions.     Form  yours 

and  reflect. 
My  love  to  Matilda.     Her  mother  looks 

well. 
I  saw  her  last  week.     I  have  nothing 

to  tell 
Worth  your  hearing.     We  think  that 

the  Government  here 
Will  not  last  our  next  session.     Fitz 

Funk  is  a  peer, 
You  will  see  by  the  Times.     There  are 

symptoms  which  show 
That  the  ministers  now  are  preparing  to 

go. 


LUCILE. 


95 


And  finish  their  feast  of  the  loaves  and 
the  fishes. 

It  is  evident  that  they  are  clearing  the 
dishes, 

And  cramming  their  pockets  with  bon- 
bons.    Your  news 

Will  be  always  acceptable.     Vere,  of  the 
Blues, 

Has  bolted  with  Lady  Selina.     And  so, 

You    have   met   with   that    hot-headed 
Frenchman  ?    I  know 

That  the  man  is  a  sad  mauvais  sujet. 
Take  care 

Of  Matilda.     I  wish  I  could  join  you 
both  there  ; 

But,  before  I  am  free,  you  are  sure  to 
be  gone. 

Good  by,  my  dear  fellow.     Yours,  anx- 
iously, 

"JOHN." 


This  is  just  the  advice  I  myself  would 

have  given 
To  Lord  Alfred,  had  I  been  his  cousin, 

which,  Heaven 
Be  praised,  I  am  not.     But  it  reached 

him  indeed 
In  an  unlucky  hour,  and  received  little 

heed.  • 

A  half-languid  glance  was  the  most  that 

he  lent  at 
That  time  to  these  homilies.     Primum 

dementat 

Quern  Deus  vult  perdere.     Alfred  in  fact 
Was  behaving  just  then  in  a  way  to  dis- 
tract 
Job's   self  had  Job  known  him.     The 

more  you  'd  have  thought 
The   Duke's  court  to   Matilda  his  eye 

would  have  caught, 
The  more  did  his  aspect  grow  listless  to 

hers, 
And  the  more  did  it  beam  to  Lucile  de 

Nevers. 
And  Matilda,  the  less  she  found  love  in 

the  look 
Of  her  husband,  the  less  did  she  shrink 

from  the  Duke. 
With  each  day  that  passed  o'er  them, 

they  each,  heart  from  heart, 
Woke  to  feel  themselves  further   and 

further  apart. 
More  and  more  of  his  time  Alfred  passed 

at  the  table ; 
Played  high  ;  and  lost  more  than  to  lose 

he  was  able. 


He  grew  feverish,  querulous,  absent, 
perverse,  — 

And  here  I  must  mention,  what  made 
matters  worse, 

That  Lucile  and  the  Duke  at  the  self- 
same hotel 

With  the  Vargraves  resided.  It  needs 
not  to  tell 

That  they  all  saw  too  much  of  each  other. 
The  weather 

Was  so  fine  that  it  brought  them  each 
day  all  together 

In  the  garden,  to  listen,  of  course,  to  the 
band. 

The  house  was  a  sort  of  phalanstery ; 
and 

Lucile  and  Matilda  were  pleased  to  dis- 
cover 

A  mutual  passion  for  music.     Moreover, 

The  Duke  was  an  excellent  tenor  :  could 
sing 

"  Ange  si  pure  "  in  a  way  to  bring  down 
on  the  wing 

All  the  angels  St.  Cicely  played  to.  My 
lord 

Would  also  at  times,  when  he  was  not 
too  bored, 

Play  Beethoven,  and  Wagner's  new  mu- 
sic, not  ill ; 

With  some  little  things  of  his  own,  show- 
ing  skill. 

For  which  reason,  as  well  as  for  some 
others  too, 

Their  rooms  were  a  pleasant  enough 
rendezvous. 

Did  Lucile,  then,  encourage  (the  heart- 
less coquette  !) 

All  the  mischief  she  could  not  but  mark  ? 
Patience  yet ! 


In  that  garden,  an  arbor,  withdrawn 
from  the  sun, 

By  laburnum  and  lilac  with  blooms  over- 
run, 

Formed  a  vault  of  cool  verdure,  which 
made,  when  the  heat 

Of  the  noontide  hung  heavy,  a  gracious 
retreat. 

And  here,  with  some  friends  of  their  own 
little  world, 

In  the  warm  afternoons,  till  the  shadows- 
uncurled 

From  the  feet  of  the  lindens,  and  crept 
through  the  grass, 

Their  blue  hours  would  this  gay  little 
colony  paas. 


96 


LUCILE. 


Tin  men  loved  to  smoke,  and  the  women 
to  bring, 

Undeterred  by  tobacco,  their  work  there, 
and  sing 

Or  converse1,  till  the  dew  fell,  and  home- 
ward the  bee 

Floated,    heavy  with  honey.     Towards 
eve  there  was  tea 

(A  luxury  due  to  Matilda),  and  ice, 

Fruit,    and   coffee.     *0  "^awepe,   irdvra 
fapeis ! 

Such  an  evening  it  was,  while  Matilda 
presided 

O'er  the  rustic  arrangements  thus  daily 
provided, 

With  the  Duke,   and  a  small  German 
Prince  with  a  thick  head, 

And  an  old  Russian  Countess  both  witty 
and  wicked, 

And  two  Austrian  Colonels,  —  that  Al- 
fred, who  yet 

Was  lounging  alone  with  his  last  cigar- 
ette, 

Saw  Lucile  de  Nevers  by  herself  pacing 
slow 

'Neath  the  shade  of  the  cool  linden-trees 
to  and  fro, 

And  joining  her,  cried,  "  Thank  the  good 
stars,  we  meet ! 

I  have  so  much  to  say  to  you  !  " 

"  Yes  ? .  .  .  "  with  her  sweet 

Serene  voice,    she  replied  to  him  .  .  . 
"Yes  ?  and  I  too 

Was  wishing,  indeed,  to  say  somewhat 
to  you." 

She  was  paler  just  then  than  her  wont 
was.     The  sound 

Of  her  voice  had  within  it  a  sadness  pro- 
found. 

"  You  are  ill? "  he  exclaimed. 

"  No ! "  she  hurriedly  said, 

"No,  no!" 

"You  alarm  me  !" 

She  drooped  down  her  head. 

"If  your  thoughts  have  of  late  sought, 
or  cared,  to  divine 

The  purpose  of  what  has  been  passing  in 
mine, 

My  farewell  can  scarcely  alarm  you." 


ALFRED. 
Your  farewell !  you  go  ! 


Lucile  ! 


LUCILE. 

Yes,  Lord  Alfred. 


ALFRED. 

Reveal 
The  cause  of  this  sudden  unkiudness. 


Unkind  ? 


LUCILE. 

ALFRED. 
Yes  !  what  else  is  this  parting  ? 


LUCILE. 

No,  no  !  are  you  blind  ? 

Look   into  your  own  heart  and  home. 
Can  you  see 

No  reason  for  this,  save  unkindness  in 
me? 

Look  into  the  eyes  of  your  wife,  —  those 
true  eyes 

Too  pure  and  too  honest  in  aught  to  dis- 
guise 

The  sweet  soul  shining  through  them. 

ALFRED. 

Lucile  !  (first  and  last 
Be  the  word,  if  you  will !)  let  me  speak 

of  the  past. 
I  know  now,  alas  !  though  I  know  it  too 

late, 
What  passed  at    that    meeting  which 

settled  my  fate. 
Nay,  nay,  interrupt  me  not  yet !  let  it 

be! 
I  but  say  what  is  due  to  yourself,  —  due 

to  me, 
And  must  say  it. 

He  rushed  incoherently  on, 
Describing  how,  lately,  the  truth  he  had 

known, 
To  explain  how,  and  whence,  he  had 

wronged  her  before, 
All  the  complicate  coil  wound  about  him 

of  yore. 
All  the  hopes  that  had  flown  with  the 

faith  that  was  fled, 
"And  then,  0  Lucile,  what  was  left  me," 

he  said, 
"When  my  life  was  defrauded  of  you, 

but  to  take 
That  life,  as  't  was  left,  and  endeavor  to 

make 
Unobserved  by  another,  the  void  which 

remained 
Unconcealed  to  myself  ?    If  I  have  not 

attained, 
I  have  striven.     One  word  of  unkindness 

has  never 


SHE    DROOPED    DOWN    HER    HEAL)." 


LUCILE. 


97 


Passed  my  lips  to   Matilda.     Her  least 

wish  has  ever 
Received  my  submission.     And  if,  of  a 

truth, 
I  have  failed  to  renew  what  I  felt  in  my 

youth, 
I  at  least  have  been  loyal  to  what  I  do 

feel, 

U.'spect,  duty,  honor,  affection.    Lucile, 
1  speak  not  of  love  now,  nor  love's  long 

regret  : 

I  would  not  offend  you,  nor  dare  I  for- 
get 
The  ties  that  are  round  me.     But  may 

there  not  be 
A  friendship  yet  hallowed  between  you 

and  me  ? 
May  we  not  be  yet  friends,  —  friends  the 

dearest  ? " 

"Alas!" 
She  replied,  "for  one  moment,  perchance, 

did  it  pass 
Through    my   own   heart,    that    dream 

which  forever  hath  brought 
To  those  who   indulge   it  in   innocent 

thought 

So  fatal  and  evil  a  waking  !     But  no. 
For  in  lives  such  as  ours  are,  the  Dream- 
tree  would  grow 
On    the  borders  of  Hades  :   beyond  it, 

what  lies  ? 

The  wheel  of  Ixion,  alas  !  and  the  cries 
Of  the  lost  and  tormented.     Departed, 

for  us, 
Are  the  days  when  with  innocence  we 

could  discuss 
Dreams   like  these.     Fled,   indeed,  are 

the  dreams  of  my  life  ! 

0  trust  me,  the  best  friend  you  have  is 

your  wife. 
And  I,  —  in  that  pure  child's  pure  virtue, 

I  bow 
To  the  beauty  of  virtue.     I  felt  on  my 

brow 
Not  one   blush   when  I  first  took  her 

hand.     With  no  blush 
Shall  I  clasp  it  to-night,  when  I  leave 

you. 

"Hush  !  hush! 

1  would  say  what  I  wished  to  have  said 

when  you  came. 
Do  not  think  that  years  leave  us  and 

find  us  the  same  ! 
The  woman  you  knew  long  ago,   long 

ago, 
Is  no  more.     You  yourself  have  within 

you,  I  know, 


The  germ  of  a  joy  in  the  years  yet  to  be, 

Whereby  the  past  years  will  bear  fruit. 
As  for  me, 

I  go  my  own  way,  —  onward,  upward  ! 

"Oyet, 

Let  me  thank   you  for  that  which  en- 
nobled regret, 

When  it  came,  as  it  beautified  hope  ere 
it  fled,  — 

The  love  I  once  felt  for  you.     True,  it 
is  dead, 

But  it  is  not  corrupted.     I  too  have  at 
last 

Lived  to  learn  that  love  is  not  —  (such 
love  as  is  past, 

Such  love  as  youth  dreams  of  at  least)  — 
the  sole  part 

Of  life,  which  is  able  to  fill  up  the  heart ; 

Even  that  of  a  woman. 

"  Between  you  and  me 

Heaven  fixes  a   gulf,  over  which  you 
must  see 

That  our  guardian   angels   can  bear  ua 
no  more. 

We  each  of  us  stand  on  an  opposite  shore. 

Trust  a  woman's  opinion  for  once.  Wom- 
en learn, 

By  an  instinct  men  never  attain,  to  dis- 
cern 

Each  other's  true  natures.     Matilda  is 
fair, 

Matilda  is  young  —  see  her  now,  sitting 
there  !  — 

How  tenderly  fashioned  —  (0,  is  she  not  ? 
say,) 

To  love  and  be  loved  !  " 


He  turned  sharply  away,  — 
"  Matilda  is  young,  and  Matilda  is  fair  ; 
Of  all  that  you  tell  me  pray  deem  me 

aware  ; 

But  Matilda 's  a  statue,  Matilda 's  a  child; 
Matilda  loves  not  —  " 

Lucile  quietly  smiled 
As  "she  answered  him: — "Yesterday, 

all  that  you  say 
Might  be  true  ;  it  is  false,  wholly  false, 

though,  to-day." 
"  How  ?  —  what  mean  you  ? " 

"I  mean  that  to-day,"  she  replied, 
"The  statue  with  life  has  become  vivi- 
fied : 
I  mean  that  the  child  to  a  woman  has 

grown  : 
And  that  woman  is  jealous. " 

"  What !  she  ? "  with  a  toue 


98 


LUCILE. 


Of   ironical    wonder,    he    answered  — 

"what,  she ! 
She  jealous  !  —  Matilda  !  —  of    whom, 

pray  ?  —  not  me  !  " 

"  My  lord,  you  deceive  yourself ;  no  one 

but  you 
Is  she  jealous  of.    Trust  me.     And  thank 

Heaven,  too, 
That  so  lately  this  passion  within  her 

hath  grown. 
For  who  shall  declare,  if  for  months  she 

had  known 
What  for  days  she   has  known  all  too 

keenly,  I  fear, 
That  knowledge  perchance  might  have 

cost  you  more  dear  ? " 
"  Explain  !  explain,  madam  ! "  he  cried 

in  surprise  ; 
And  terror  and  anger  enkindled  his  eyes. 

"  How   blind  are   you  men  ! "  she  re- 
plied.    "  Can  you  doubt 

That  a  woman,  young,  fair,  and  neg- 
lected —  " 

"Speak  out ! " 

He    gasped   with    emotion.      "  Lucile ! 
you  mean  —  what  ? 

Do  you  doubt  her  fidelity  ? " 

"Certainly  not. 

Listen  to  me,  my  friend.     What  I  wish 
to  explain 

Is  so  hard  to  shape  forth.     I  could  al- 
most refrain 

From    touching    a   subject    so    fragile. 
However, 

Bear  with  me  awliile,  if  I  frankly  en- 
deavor 

To  invade  for  one  moment  your  inner- 
most life. 

Your  honor,  Lord  Alfred,  and  that  of 
your  wife, 

Are  dear  to  me,  —  most  dear  !    And  I 
am  convinced 

That  you  rashly  are  risking  that  honor." 
He  winced, 

And  turned  pale,  as  she  spoke. 

She  had  aimed^t  his  heart, 

And  she  saw,  by  his  sudden  and  terrified 
start, 

That  her  aim  had  not  missed. 

"  Stay,  Lucile  !  "  he  exclaimed, 

"  What  in  truth  do  you  mean  by  these 
words,  vaguely  framed 

To  alarm  me  ?    Matilda  ?  —  My  wife  ?  — 
do  you  know  ? "  — 


"  I  know  that  your  wife  is  as  spotlest 

as  snow. 
But  I  know  not  how  far  your  continued 

neglect 
Her  nature,  as  well  as  her  heart,  might 

affect. 

Till  at  last,  by"  degrees,  that  serene  at- 
mosphere 
Of  her  unconscious  purity,   faint  and 

yet  clear, 
Like  the  indistinct  golden  and  vaporous 

fleece 
Which  surrounded  and  hid  the  celestials 

in  Greece 
From  the  glances  of  men,  would  disperse 

and  depart 
At  the  sighs  of  a  sick  and  delirious 

heart,  — 

For  jealousy  is  to  a  woman,  be  sure, 
A  disease  healed  too  oft  by  a  criminal 

cure ; 
And  the  heart  left  too  long  to  its  ravage, 

in  time 
May  find  weakness  in  virtue,  reprisal 

in  crime." 

v. 

"Such  thoughts  could  have  never,"  he 

faltered,  "  I  know, 
Reached  the  heart  of  Matilda." 

"Matilda?    0  no ! 
But  reflect !  when  such  thoughts  do  not 

come  of  themselves 
To  the  heart  of  a  woman  neglected,  like 

elves 
That  seek  lonely  places,  —  there  rarely 

is  wanting 

Some  voice  at  her  side,  with  an  evil  en- 
chanting 
To  conjure  them  to  her." 

"  0  lady,  beware  ! 
At  this  moment,  around  me   I  search 

everywhere 
For  a  clew  to  your  words  "  — 

"  You  mistake  them,"  she  said, 
Half  fearing,  indeed,  the  effect  they  had 

made. 
"I  was  putting  a  mere  hypothetical  case. " 

With  a  long  look  of  trouble  he  gazed  in 

her  face. 
"Woe  to  him,  ..."  he  exclaimed  .  .  . 

"  woe  to  him  that  shall  feel 
Such  a  hope  !  for  I  swear,  if  he  did  but 

reveal 
One  glimpse,  —  it  should  be  the  last 

hope  of  his  life  ! " 


LUCILE. 


99 


The  clenched  hand  and  bent   eyebrow 

betokened  the  strife 
She  had  roused  in  his  heart. 

"  You  forget,"  she  began, 
"  That  you  menace  yourself.     You  your- 
self are  the  man 

That  is  guilty.     Alas !  must  it  ever  be  so  ? 
Do  we  stand  in  our  own  light,  wherever 

we  go, 
And  fight  our  own  shadows  forever  ?    0 

think  ! 
The  trial  from  which  you,  the  stronger 

ones,  shrink, 
You  ask  woman,  the  weaker  one,  still 

to  endure  ; 
You  bid  her  be  true  to  the  laws  you 

abjure  ; 
To  abide  by  the  ties  you  yourselves  rend 

asunder, 
With  the  force  that  has  failed  you  ;  and 

that  too,  when  under 
The  assumption  of  rights  which  to  her 

you  refuse, 
The  immunity   claimed   for    yourselves 

you  abuse  ! 
Where  the  contract  exists,  it  involves 

obligation 
To  both  husband  and  wife,  in  an  equal 

relation. 

You  unloose,  in  asserting  your  own  lib- 
erty, 
A  knot,  which,  unloosed,  leaves  another 

as  free. 
Then,   0  Alfred  !    be  juster  at  heart  : 

and  thank  Heaven 
That  Heaven  to  your  wife  such  a  nature 

has  given 
That  you  have  not  wherewith  to  reproach 

her,  albeit 

You  have  cause  to  reproach  your  own 
.      self,  could  you  see  it ! " 


In  the  silence   that   followed  the  last 

word  she  said, 
In  the  heave  of  his  chest,  and  the  droop 

of  his  head, 

Poor  Lucile  marked  her  words  had  suf- 
ficed to  impart 
A  new  germ  of  motion  and  life  to  that 

heart 
Of  which  he  himself  had  so  recently 

spoken 
As   dead   to   emotion,  —  exhausted,    or 

broken  ! 
New  fears  would  awaken  new  hopes  in 

his  life. 


In  the  husband  indifferent  no  more  to 

the  wife 
She  already,  as  she  had  foreseen,  could 

discover 
That  Matilda  had  gained,  at  her  hands, 

a  new  lover. 
So  after  some  moments  of  silence,  whose 

spell 
They  both  felt,  she  extended  her  hand 

to  him.  .  .  . 

VII. 

"Well?" 

VIII. 

"Lucile,"  he  replied,  as  that  soft  quiet 
hand 

In  his  own  he  clasped  warmly,  "  I  both 
understand 

And  obey  you." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  she  murmured. 
"0  yet, 

One   word,   I   beseech  you  !     I  cannot 
forget," 

He  exclaimed,  "  we  are  parting  for  life. 
You  have  shown 

My  pathway  to  me  :   but  say,  what  is 
your  own  ? " 

The  calmness  with  which  until  then  she 
had  spoken 

In  a  moment  seemed  strangely  and  sud- 
denly broken. 

She  turned  from  him  nervously,   hur- 
riedly. 

"Nay, 

I  know  not,"  she  murmured,  "  I  follow 
the  way 

Heaven  leads  me ;  I  cannot  foresee  to 
what  end. 

I  know  only  that  far,  far  away  it  must 
tend 

From  all  places  in  which  we  have  met, 
or  might  meet. 

Far  away  !  —  onward  —  upward  !  " 

A  smile  strange  and  sweet 

As   the  incense  that  rises   from   some 
sacred  cup 

And  mixes  with  music,  stole  forth,  and 
breathed  up 

Her  whole  face,  with  those  words. 

"  Wheresoever  it  be, 

May  all  gentlest  angels  attend  you  ! " 
sighed  he, 

"And  bear  my  heart's  blessing  wher- 
ever you  are  ! " 

And  her  hand,  with  emotion,  he  kissed. 


100 


LUCILE. 


IX. 

From  afar 

That  kiss  was,  alas  !  by  Matilda  beheld 
With   far  other  emotions :    her  young 

bosom  swelled, 

And  her  young  cheek  with  anger  was 
crimsoned. 

The  Duke 

Adroitly  attracted  towards  it  her  look 
By  a  faint  but  significant  smile. 


Much  ill-construed, 
Renowned  Bishop  Berkeley  has  fully,  for 

one,  strewed 
With  arguments  page  upon  page  to  teach 

That  the  world  they  inhabit  is  only  a 

hoax. 
But  it  surely  is  hard,  since  we  can't  do 

without  them, 
That  our  senses  should  make  us  so  oft 

wish  to  doubt  them  ! 


CANTO  III. 


WHEN  first  the  red  savage  called  Man 

strode,  a  king, 
Through   the  wilds   of   creation,  —  the 

very  first  thing 
That  his  naked  intelligence  taught  him 

to  feel 
Was  the  shame  of  himself ;    and  the 

wish  to  conceal 
Was  the   first  step  in  art.     From  the 

apron  which  Eve 
In  Eden  sat  down  out  of  fig-leaves  to 

weave, 
To  the  furbelowed  flounce  and  the  broad 

crinoline 
Of  my  lady  .  .  .  you  all  know  of  course 

whom  I  mean  .  .  . 

This  art  of  concealment  has  greatly  in- 
creased. 
A   whole   world    lies    cryptic    in    each 

human  breast ; 
And  that  drama  of  passions  as  old  as  the 

hills, 
Which  the  moral  of  all  men  in  each  man 

fulfils, 
Is  only  revealed  now  and  then  to  bur 

eyes 
In  the  newspaper-files  and  the  courts  of 

•ate, 


ir. 

In  the  group  seen  so  lately  in  sunlight 
assembled, 

'Mid  those  walks  over  which  the  labur- 
num-bough trembled, 

And  the  deep-bosomed  lilac,  empam- 
dising 

The  haunts  where  the  blackbird  and 
thrush  flit  and  sing, 

The  keenest  eye  could  but  have  seen, 
and  seen  only, 

A  circle  of  fiiends,  minded  not  to  leave 
lonely 

The  bird  on  the  bough,  or  the  bee  on 
the  blossom  ; 

Conversing  at  ease  in  the  garden's  green 
bosom, 

Like  those  who,  when  Florence  was  yet 
in  her  glories, 

Cheated  death  and  killed  time  with 
Boccaccian  stories. 

But  at  length  the  long  twilight  more 
deeply  grew  shaded, 

And  the  fair  night  the  rosy  horizon 
invaded. 

And  the  bee  in  the  blossom,  the  bird  on 
the  bough, 

Through  the  shadowy  garden  were  slum- 
bering now. 

The  trees  only,  o'er  every  unvisited  walk, 

Began  on  a  sudden  to  whisper  and  talk. 

And,  as  each  little  sprightly  and  garru- 
lous leaf 

Woke  up  with  an  evident  sense  of  relief, 

They  all  seemed  to  be  saying  ..."  Once 
more  we  're  alone, 

And,  thank  Heaven,  those  tiresome  peo- 
ple are  gone  ! " 


Through  the  deep  blue  concave  of  the 
luminous  air, 

Large,  loving,  and  languid,  the  stars 
here  and  there,  • 

Like  the  eyes  of  shy  passionate  women, 
looked  down 

O'er  the  dim  world  whose  sole  tender 
light  was  their  own, 

When  Matilda,  alone,  from  her  chamber 
descended, 

And  entered  the  garden,  unseen,  unat- 
tended. 

Her  forehead  was  aching  and  parched, 
and  her  breast 

By  a  vague  inexpressible  sadness  op- 
pressed ; 


LUCILE. 


101 


A  sadness  which  led  her,  she  scarcely 

knew  how, 
And  she  scarcely  knew  why .  .  .  (save, 

indeed,  that  just  now 
The  house,  out  of  which  with  a  gasp  she 

had  fled    • 
Half-stifled,    seemed   ready  to  sink  on 

her  head)  .  .  . 
Out  into  the  night  air,  the  silence,  the 

bright 
Boundless  starlight,  the  cool  isolation 

of  night ! 
Her  husband  that  day  had  looked  once 

in  her  face, 
And  pressed  both  her  hands  in  a  silent 

embrace, 
And  reproachfully  noticed  her  recent 

dejection 
With  a  smile  of  kind  wonder  and  tacit 

affection. 
He,  of  late  so  indifferent  and  listless  ! 

...  at  last 
Was  he  startled  and  awed  by  the  change 

which  had  passed 
O'er  the  once  radiant  face  of  his  young 

wife  ?    Whence  came 
That  long  look  of  solicitous  fondness? 

.  .  .  the  same 
Look  and  language  of  quiet  affection,  — 

the  look 
And  the  language,  alas  !  which  so  often 

she  took 
For  pure  love  in  the  simple  repose  of  its 

purity,  — 
Her  own  heart  thus  lulled  to  a  fatal 

security  ! 
Ha  !  would  he  deceive  her  again  by  this 

kindness  ? 

Had  she  been,  then,  0  fool  !  in  her  in- 
nocent blindness 
The  sport  of  transparent  illusion  ?   ah, 

folly  ! 
And  that  feeling,  so  tranquil,  so  happy, 

so  holy, 
She  had  taken,  till  then,  in  the  heart, 

not  alone 
Of  her  husband,   but  also,   indeed,   in 

her  own, 
For  true  love,   nothing  else,  after  all, 

did  it  prove 
But  a  friendship  profanely  familiar  ? 

"  And  love  ?  .  .  . 
What  was  love,  then  ?  .  .  .  not  calm, 

not  secure,  —  scarcely  kind  ! 
But  in  one,  all  intensest  emotions  com- 
bined : 
Life  and  death  :  pain  and  rapture." 


Thus  wandering  astray, 
Led  by  doubt,  through  the  darkness  she 

wandered  away. 

All  silently  crossing,  recrossing  the  night, 
With  faint,  meteoric,  miraculous  light, 
The   swift-shooting   stars   through  the 

infinite  burned, 

And  into  the  infinite  ever  returned. 
And  silently  o'er  the  obscure  and  un- 
known 
In  the  heart  of  Matilda  there  darted  and 

shone 
Thoughts,  enkindling  like  meteors  the 

deeps,  to  expire, 
Leaving  traces  behind  them  of  tremulous 


IV. 

She  entered  that  arbor  of  lilacs,  in 
which 

The  dark  air  with  odors  hung  heavy  and 
rich, 

Like  a  soul  that  grows  faint  with  desire. 
'T  was  the  place 

In  which  she  so  lately  had  sat,  face  to 
face 

With  her  husband,  —  and  her,  the  pale 
stranger  detested, 

Whose  presence  her  heart  like  a  plague 
had  infested. 

The  whole  spot  with  evil  remembrance 
was  haunted. 

Through  the  darkness  there  rose  on  the 
heart  which  it  daunted 

Each  dreary  detail  of  that  desolate  day, 

So  full,  and  yet  so  incomplete.  Far 
away 

The  acacias  were  muttering,  like  mis- 
chievous elves, 

The  whole  story  over  again  to  them- 
selves, 

Each  word,  —  and  each  word  was  a 
wound  !  By  degrees 

Her  memory  mingled  its  voice  with  the 
trees. 


Like  the  whisper  Eve  heard,  when  she 

paused  by  the  root 
Of  the  sad  tree  of  knowledge,  and  gazed 

on  its  fruit, 
To  the  heart  of  Matilda  the  trees  seemed 

to  hiss 
Wild  instructions,  revealing  man's  last 

right,  which  is 
The  right  of  reprisals. 

An  image  uncertain, 


102 


LUCILE. 


And  vague,  dimly  shaped  itself  forth  on 

tne  curtain 
Of  the  darkness  around  her.     It  eame, 

and  it  went ; 
Through  her  senses  a  faint  sense  of  j>eril 

it  sent  : 
It  passed  and  repassed  her  ;  it  went  and 

it  came 

Forever  returning  ;  forever  the  same  ; 
And  forever  more  clearly  defined  ;  till 

her  eyes 

In  that  outline  obscure  could  at  last  rec- 
ognize 
The  man  to  whose  image,  the  more  and 

the  more 
That  her  heart,  now  aroused  from  its 

calm  sleep  of  yore, 
From  her  husband  detached  itself  slowly, 

with  pain, 
Her  thoughts  had  returned,  and  returned 

to,  again, 
As   though    by   some   secret   indefinite 

law,  — 
The  vigilant  Frenchman,  —  Eugene  de 

Luvois  ! 


A  light  sound  behind  her.     She  trem- 
bled.    By  some 
Night-witchcraft  her  vision  a  fact  had 

become. 
On  a  sudden  she  felt,  without  turning 

to  view, 
That  a  man  was  approaching  behind  her. 

She  knew 
By  the  fluttering  pulse  which  she  could 

not  restrain, 
And  the  quick-beating  heart,  that  this 

man  was  Eugene. 
Her  first  instinct  was  flight ;  but  she  felt 

her  slight  foot 
As  heavy  as  though  to  the  soil  it  had 

root. 
And  the  Duke's  voice  retained  her,  like 

fear  in  a  dream. 

VII. 

"  Ah,  lady  !  in  life  there  are  meetings 
which  seem 

Like  a  fate.  Dare  I  think  like  a  sym- 
pathy too  ? 

Yet  what  else  can  I  bless  for  this  vision 
of  you  ? 

Alone  with  my  thoughts,  on  this  star- 
lighted  lawn, 

By  an  instinct  resistless,  I  felt  myself 
drawu 


To  revisit  the  memories  left  in  the  place 
Where  so  lately  this  evening  I  looked 

in  your  face. 
And  I  find,  —  you,  yourself,  —  my  own 

dream  ! 

"  Can  there  be 
In  this  world  one  thought  common  to 

you  and  to  me  ? 
If  so,  ...  I,  who  deemed  but  a  moment 

ago 
My  heart  uncompanioned,  save  only  by 

woe, 
Should  indeed  be  more  blessed  than  I 

dare  to  believe  — 
Ah,  but  one  word,  but  one  from  your 

lips  to  receive  "... 

Interrupting  him  quickly,  she  murmured, 

"  I  sought, 
Here,  a  moment  of  solitude,  silence,  and 

thought, 
Which  I  needed."  .  .  . 

"  Lives  solitude  only  for  one  ? 
Must  its  charm  by  my  presence  so  soon 

be  undone  ? 
Ah,  cannot  two  share  it  ?    What  needs 

it  for  this  ?  — 
The  same  thought  in  both  hearts,  — be 

it  sorrow  or  bliss  ; 
If  my  heart  be  the  reflex  of  yours,  lady, 

—  you, 
Are  you  not  yet  alone,  —  even  though 

we  be  two  ? " 

"  For  that,"  .  .   .   said   Matilda,   .   .   . 

"needs  were,  you  should  read 
What  I  have  in  my  heart."  .  .  . 

"Think  you,  lady,  indeed, 
You  are  yet  of  that  age  when  a  woman 

conceals 
In  her  heart  so  completely  whatever  she 

feels 
From   the  heart  of  the   man  whom  it 

interests  to  know 
And  find  out  what  that  feeling  may  be  ? 

Ah,  not  so, 
Lady  Alfred  !     Forgive  me  that  in  it  I 

look, 
But  I  read  in  your  heart  as  I  read  in  a 

book." 

"  Well,    Duke  !    and    what    read    you 

within  it  ?   unless 

It  be,  of  a  truth,  a  profound  weariness, 
And  some  sadness  ?  ' 

"No  doubt.     To  all   facts  there  are 

laws. 


LUCILE. 


103 


The  effect  has  its  cause,  and  I  mount  to 
the  cause." 

VIII. 

Matilda  shrank  back  ;  for  she  suddenly 

found 
That  a  finger  was  pressed  on  the  yet 

bleeding  wound 
She  herself  had  but  that  day  perceived 

in  her  breast. 

"  You  are  sad,"  .  .  .  said  the  Duke  (and 

that  finger  yet  pressed 
With  a  cruel  persistence  the  wound  it 

made  bleed)  — 
"You  are  sad,  Lady  Alfred,  because  the 

first  need 
Of  a  young   and  a  beautiful  woman  is 

to  be 
Beloved,  and  to  love.     You  are  sad  :  for 

you  see 
That  you  are  not  beloved,  as  you  deemed 

that  you  were  : 
You  are  sad  :  for  that  knowledge  hath 

left  you  aware 
That  you  have  not  yet  loved,  though  you 

thought  that  you  hail. 
Yes,  yes  !  .  .   .  you  are   sad  —  because 

knowledge  is  sad  !  " 
He  could  not  have  read  more  profoundly 

her  heart. 
"What  gave  you,"   she  cried,  with  a 

terrified  start, 
"  Such  strange  power  ? "  .  .  . 

"To   read   in  your  thoughts?"   he 

exclaimed, 
"0  lady, — a  love,  deep,  profound,— 

be  it  blamed 
Or  rejected,  —  a  love,  true,  intense,  — 

such,  at  least, 
As  you,  and  you  only,  could  wake  in  my 

breast  !  " 

"Hush,  hush  !  .  .  .  I  beseech  you  .  .  . 

for  pity  !  "  she  gasped, 
Snatching  hurriedly  from  him  the  hand 

he  had  clasped 
In  her  effort  instinctive  to  fly  from  the 

spot. 

"  For  pity  ?"  .  .  .  he  echoed,  "for  pity  ! 

and  what 
Is  the  pity  you  owe  him  ?  his  pity  for 

you  ! 
He,  the  lord  of  a  life,  fresh  as  new-fallen 

dew  ! 


The  guardian  and  guide  of  a  woman, 

young,  fair, 
And  matchless  !   (whose  happiness  did 

he  not  swear 
To  cherish  through  life  ?)  he  neglects  her 

—  for  whom  ? 
For  a  fairer  than  she  ?     No  !  the  rose  in 

the  bloom 
Of  that  beauty  which,  even  when  hidden, 

can  prevail 
To  keep  sleepless  with  song  the  aroused 

nightingale, 
Is  not  fairer  ;  for  even  in  the  pure  world 

of  flowers 
Her  symbol  is  not,  and  this  poor  world 

of  ours 
Has  no  second   Matilda  !     For  whom  ? 

Let  that  pass  ! 
'T  is  not  I,  't  is  not  you,  that  can  name 

her,  alas  ! 
And  I  dare  not  question  or  judge  her. 

But  why, 
Why   cherish  the   cause  of   your  own 

misery  ? 
Why  think  of  one,  lady,  who  thinks  not 

of  you  ? 
Why  be  bound  by  a  chain  which  himself 

he  breaks  through  ? 
And  why,  since  you  have  but  to  stretch 

forth  your  hand, 
The  love  which  you  need  and  deserve  to 

command, 
Why  shrink  ?    Why  repel  it  ? " 

"  0  hush,  sir  !  0  hush  ! " 
Cried  Matilda,  as  thoiigh  her  whole  heart 

were  one  blush. 
"  Cease,  cease,  I  conjure  you,  to  trouble 

my  life  ! 
Is  not  Alfred  your  friend  ?  and  anl  I  not 

his  wife  ? " 

IX. 

"  And  have  I  not,  lady,"  he  answered, 

.  .  .  "respected 
His  rights  as  a  friend,  till  himself  he 

neglected 
Your  rights  as  a  wife  ?    Do  you  think 

•  'tis  alone 
For  three  days  I  have  loved  you  ?    My 

love  may  have  grown 
I  admit,  day  by  day,  since  I  first  felt 

your  eyes, 
In  watching  their  tears,  and  in  sounding 

your  sighs. 

But,  0  lady  !  I  loved  you  before  I  be- 
lieved 
That  your  eyes  ever  wept,  or  your  heart 

ever  grieved. 


104 


LUCILE. 


Thi-n   I   doemed    you  were  happy  —  I 

deemed  you  pos> 
All  the  love  you  deserved,  —  and  I  hid 

in  my  breast 
My  own  love,  till  this  hour  —  when  1 

could  not  but  feel 
Your  grief  gave  me  the  right  my  own 

grief  to  reveal  ! 

I  knew,  years  ago,  of  the  singular  power 
Which   Lucile  o'er  your   husband  pos- 
sessed.    Till  the  hour 
In  which  he  revealed  it  himself,  did  I, 

—  say!  — 

By  a  word,  or  a  look,  such  a  secret  be- 
tray ? 
No  !  no  !  do  me  justice.     I  never  have 

spoken 
Of  this  poor  heart  of  mine,  till  all  ties 

he  had  broken 
Which  bound  your  heart  to  him.     And 

now  —  now,  that  his  love 
For  another  hath  left   your  own  heart 

free  to  rove, 
What  is  it,  —  even  now,  —  that  I  kneel 

to  implore  you  ? 
Only  this,  Lady  Alfred  !  ...  to  let  me 

adore  you 
Unblamed  :  to  have  confidence  in  me : 

to  spend 
On  me  not  one  thought,  save  to  think 

me  your  friend. 
Let  me  speak  to  you,  — ah,  let  me  speak 

to  you  still ! 
Hush  to  silence  my  words  in  your  heart, 

if  you  will. 

I  ask  no  response  :  I  ask  only  your  leave 
To  live  yet  in  your  life,  and  to  grieve 

when  you  grieve  ! " 


4 'Leave  me,  leave  me  !  "  .  .  .  she  gasped, 
with  a  voice  thick  and  low 

From  emotion.     ' '  For  pity's  sake,  Duke, 
let  me  go  ! 

I  feel  that  to  blame  we  should  both  of 
us  be, 

Did  I  linger." 

"To   blame?   yes,  no  doubt!"  .  .  . 
answered  he, 

"If  the  love  of  your  husband,  in  bring- 
ing you  peace, 

Had  forbidden  you  hope.     But  he  signs 
your  release 

By  the  hand  of  another.     One  moment ! 
but  one  1 

Who  knows  when,  alas  !  I  may  see  you 
alone 


As  to-night  I  have  seen  you  ?  or  whei 

we  may  meet 

As  to-night  we  have  met  ?  when,  en- 
tranced at  your  feet, 
As  in  tliis  Messed  hour,  1  may  ever  avow 
The  thoughts  which  are  pining  for  utter- 
ance now  ? " 
"  Duke  !  Duke  ! "...  she  exclaimed . .  . 

' '  for  heaven's  sake  let  me  go  ! 
It  is  late.     In  the  house  they  will  miss 

me,  1  know. 
We  must  not  be  seen  here  together.    The 

night 
Is  advancing.     I  feel  overwhelmed  with 

affright ! 
It  is  time  to  return  to  my  lord." 

"To  your  lord?" 
He  repeated,  with  lingering  reproach  on 

the  word, 
"  To  your  lord  ?  do  you  think  he  awaits 

you,  in  truth  ? 
Is  he  anxiously  missing  your  presence, 

forsooth  ? 
Return  to  your  lord  !  .  .  .  his  restraint 

to  renew  ? 
And  hinder  the  glances  which  are  not  for 

you? 
No,  no  !  ...  at  this  moment  his  looks 

seek  the  face 
Of  another  !   another  is  there  in  your 

place  ! 

Another  consoles  him  !  another  receives 
The  soft  speech  which  from  silence  your 

absence  relieves  ! " 

XI. 

"You  mistake,  sir!"  .  .  .  responded  a 

voice,  calm,  severe, 
And  sad,  .  .  .  "You  mistake,  sir !  that 

other  is  here." 

Eugene  and  Matilda  both  started. 

"Lncile!" 
With  a  half-stifled   scream,  as  she  felt 

herself  reel 

From  the  place  where  she  stood,  cried 
Matilda. 

"  Ho,  oh  ! 
What!  eaves-dropping,  madam?"  .  .  . 

the  Duke  cried  .  .  .  "And  so 
You  were  listening  ? " 

"Say,    rather,"   she   said,    "that    1 

heard, 
Without  wishing  to  hear  it,   that  in- 

famous  word,  — 
Heard  —  and  therefore  reply. " 

"Belle  Cotntesse,"  said  the  Duke, 


LUCILE. 


105 


With  concentrated  wrath  in  the  savage 

rebuke, 
Which   betrayed   that   he    felt   himself 

baffled  ..."  you  know 
That  your  place  is  not  here." 

"Duke,"  she  answered  him  slow, 
"  My  place  is  wherever  my  duty  is  clear  ; 
And  therefore  my  place,  at  this  moment, 

is  here. 

0  lady,  this  morning  my  place  was  beside 
Your  husband,  because  (as  she  said  this 

she  sighed) 

1  felt  that  from  folly  fast  growing  to 

crime  — 
The   crime   of  self-blindness  —  Heaven 

yet  spared  me  time 

To  save  for  the  love  of  an  innocent  wife 
All  that  such  love  deserved  in  the  heart 

and  the  life 
Of  the  man  to  whose  heart  and  whose 

life  you  alone 
Can  with  safety  confide  the  pure  trust 

of  your  own." 

She  turned  to  Matilda,  and  lightly  laid 

on  her 
Her  soft,  quiet  hand  .  .  . 

"'Tis,  0  lady,  the  honor 
Which  that  man  has  confided  to  you, 

that,  in  spite 
Of  his  friend,  I  now  trust  I  may  yet  save 

to-night  — 
Save  for  both  of  you,  lady  !  for  yours 

I  revere  ; 
Due   de   Luvois,    what  say  you  ?  —  my 

place  is  not  here  ?" 


And,  so  saying,  the  hand  of  Matilda  she 

caught, 
Wound  one  arm  round  her  waist  unre- 

sisted,  and  sought 
Gently,  softly,  to  draw  her  away  from 

the  spot. 
The  Duke  stood  confounded,  and  followed 

them  not. 
But  not  yet  the  house  had  they  reached 

when  Lucile 
Her  tender  and   delicate  burden  could 

feel 
Sink  and  falter  beside  her.     0,  then  she 

knelt  down, 
Flung    her  arms    round   Matilda,    and 

pressed  to  her  own 
The  poor  bosom  beating  against  her. 

The  moon, 


Bright,   breathless,    and  buoyant,    and 

brimful  of  June, 
Floated  up  from  the  hillside,  sloped  over 

the  vale, 
And  poised  herself  loose  in  mid-heaven, 

"with  one  pale, 
Minute,    scintillescent,    and    tremulous 

star 

Swinging  under  her  globe  like  a  wizard- 
lit  car, 
Thus  to  each  of  those  women  revealing 

the  face 
Of  the  other.     Each  bore  on  her  features 

the  trace 
Of  a   vivid   emotion.     A   deep  inward 

shame 
The  cheek  of  Matilda  had  flooded  with 

flame. 

With  her  enthusiastic  emotion,  Lucile 
Trembled  visibly  yet ;  for  she  could  not 

but  feel 
That  a  heavenly  hand  was  upon  her  that 

night, 
And  it  touched  her  pure    brow  to  a 

heavenly  light. 
"In  the   name  of  your  husband,  dear 

lady,"  she  said  ; 
"In  the  name  of  your  mother,    take 

heart  !     Lift  your  head, 
For  those  blushes  are  noble.     Alas  !  do 

not  trust 
To  that  maxim  of  virtue  made  ashes  and 

dust, 
That  the  fault  of  the  husband  can  cancel 

the  wife's. 
Take  heart !  and  take  refuge  and  strength 

in  your  life's 
Pure  silence, — there,  kneel,  pray,  and 

hope,  weep,  and  wait !  " 
"Saved,  Lucile  !  "  sobbed  Matilda,  "but 

saved  to  what  fate  ? 
Tears,  prayers,  yes  !  not  hopes." 

"  Hush  !  "  the  sweet  voice  replied. 
"  Fooled  away  by  a  fancy,  again  to  your 

side 
Must  your  husband  return.     Doubt  not 

this.     And  return 
For  the  love  you  can  give,  with  the  love 

that  you  yearn 
To  receive,  lady.     What  was  it  chilled 

you  both  now  ? 
Not  the  absence  of  love,  but  the  igno- 
rance how 
Love  is  nourished  by  love.   Well !   hence- 
forth you  will  prove 
Your  heart  worthy  of  love,  — since  it 

knows  how  to  love." 


106 


LUCILE. 


XIII. 

"  What  gives  you  such  power  over  me, 

that  I  feel 
Thus  drawn  to  obey  you  ?    What  arc 

you,  Lucile  ? 
Sighed  Matilda,  and  lifted  her  eyes  to 

the  face 
Of  Lucile. 

There  passed  suddenly  through  it  the 

trace 
Of  deep  sadness  ;  and  o'er  that  fair  fore- 

iiead  came  down 
A  shadow  which  yet  was  too  sweet  for  a 

frown. 
"The  pupil  of  sorrow,  perchance"  .  .  . 

she  replied. 
"Of  sorrow/"  Matilda  exclaimed  .  .  . 

"0  confide 
To  my  heart  your  affliction.     In  all  you 

made  known 
I  should  find  some  instruction,  no  doubt, 

for  my  own  !  " 

"And  I  some   consolation,   no  doubt; 

for  the  tears 
Of  another  have  not  flowed  for  me  many 

years." 

It  was  then  that  Matilda  herself  seized 

the  hand 
Of  Lucile  in  her  own,  and  uplifted  her  ; 

and 
Thus  together  they  entered  the  house. 


'T  was  the  room 
Of  Matilda. 

The  languid  and  delicate  gloom 
Of  a  lamp  of  pure  white  alabaster,  aloft 
From  the  ceiling  suspended,  around  it 

slept  soft. 
The   casement   oped   into  the   garden. 

The  pale 
Cool    moonlight   streamed   through    it. 

One  lone  nightingale 
Sung  aloof  in  the  laurels. 

And  here,  side  by  side, 
Hand  in  hand,  the  two  women  sat  down 

undescried, 
Save  by  guardian  angels. 

As,  when,  sparkling  yet 
From  the  rain,  that,  with  drops  that  are 

jewels,  leaves  wet 
The  bright  head  it  humbles,  a  young 

rose  inclines 
To  some  pale  lily  near  it,  the  fair  vision 

shines 


As  one  flower  with  two  faces,  in  huslu -il, 

tearful  speech, 
Like  the  showery  whispers  of  flowers, 

,       each  to  each 
Linked,  and  leaning  together,  so  loving, 

so  fair, 
So  united,  yet  diverse,  the  two  women 

there 
Looked,  indeed,  like  two  flowers  upon 

one  drooping  stem, 
In  the  soft  light  that  tenderly  rested  on 

them. 

All  that  soul  said  to  soul  in  that  cham- 
ber, who  knows  ? 
All  that  heart  gained  from  heart  ? 

Leave  the  lily,  the  rose, 
Undisturbed   with   their   secret  within 

them.     For  who 
To  the  heart  of  the  floweret  can  follow 

the  dew  ? 
A  night  full  of  stars  !    O'er  the  silence, 

unseen, 

The  footsteps  of  sentinel  angels,  between 
The  dark  land  and  deep  sky  were  mov- 
ing.    You  heard 
Passed   from   earth   up  to  heaven  the 

happy  watchword 
Which  brightened  the  stars  as  amongst 

them  it  fell 
From  earth's  heart,  which  it  eased  .  .  . 

"  All  is  well !  all  is  well !  " 


CANTO  IV. 


THE  Poets  pour  wine ;  and,  when  't  is 

new,  all  decry  it, 
But,  once  let  it  be  old,  every  trifler 

must  try  it. 
And    Polonius,    who    praises   no    wine 

that 's  not  Massic, 
Complains  of  my  verse,  that  my  verse  is 

not  classic. 
And  Miss  Tilburina,  who  sings,  and  not 

badly, 
My  earlier  verses,  sighs  "Commonplace 

sadly  ! " 

As  for  you,  0  Polonius,  you  vex  me  but 

slightly ; 
But  you,  Tilburina,  your  eyes  beam  so 

brightly 
In  despite  of  their  languishing  looks,  on 

my  word, 


LUCILE. 


107 


That  to  see  you  look  cross  I  can  scarcely 

afford. 
Yes  !  the  silliest  woman  that  smiles  on 

a  bard 
Better  far  than  Longinus  himself  can 

reward 
The  appeal  to  her  feelings  of  which  she 

approves ; 
And  the  critics  I  most  care  to  please  are 

the  Loves. 

Alas,  friend  !  what  boots  it,  a  stone  at 

his  head 
And  a  brass  on  his  breast,  —  when  a 

man  is  once  dead  ? 
Ay  !  were  fame  the  sole  guerdon,  poor 

guerdon  were  then 
Theirs  who,  stripping   life  bare,  stand 

forth  models  for  men. 
The  reformer's  ?  —  a  creed  by  posterity 

learnt 

A  century  after  its  author  is  burnt  ! 
The  poet's  ?  —  a  laurel  that  hides  the 

bald  brow 
It  hath  blighted  !     The  painter's  ?  —  ask 

Raphael  now 
Which    Madonna 's    authentic !       The 

statesman's  ?  —  a  name 
For  parties  to  blacken,  or  boys  to  de- 
claim ! 
The  soldier's  ?  —  three  lines  on  the  cold 

Abbey  pavement ! 
Were  this  all  the  life  of  the  wise  and  the 

brave  meant, 
All  it  ends  in,  thrice  better,  Nesera,  it 

were 
Unregarded  to  sport  with  thine  odorous 

hair, 
Untroubled   to  lie  at  thy  feet  in  the 

shade 
And  be  loved,  while  the  roses  yet  bloom 

overhead, 
Than  to  sit  by  the  lone  hearth,  and  think 

the  long  thought, 
A  severe,  sad,  blind  schoolmaster,  envied 

for  naught 
Save  the  name  of  John  Milton  !     For  all 

men,  indeed, 

Who  in  some  choice  edition  may  gracious- 
ly read, 

With  fair  illustration,  and  erudite  note, 
The  song  which  the  poet  in  bitterness 

wrote, 
Beat  the  poet,  and  notably  beat  him,  in 

this  — 
The  joy  of  the  genius  is  theirs,  whilst 

they  miss. 


The  grief  of  the  man  :  Tasso's  song,  — 

not  his  madness  ! 
Dante's  dreams,  —  not    his  waking  to 

exile  and  sadness  ! 

Milton's  music,  —  but  not  Milton's  blind- 
ness !  .  .  . 

Yet  rise, 
My  Milton,  and  answer,  with  those  noble 

eyes 
Which  the  glory  of  heaven  hath  blinded 

to  earth  ! 
Say  —  the  life,  in  the  living  it,  savors 

of  worth  : 
That  the  deed,  in  the  doing  it,  reaches 

its  aim  : 
That  the  fact  has  a  value  apart  from  the 

fame  : 
That  a  deeper  delight,  in  the  mere  labor, 

pays 
Scorn  of  lesser  delights,  and  laborious 

days  : 

And   Shakespeare,    though    all    Shake- 
speare's writings  were  lost, 
And  his  genius,  though  never  a  trace  of 

it  crossed 
Posterity's  path,  not  the  less  would  have 

dwelt 
In  the  isle  with  Miranda,  with  Hamlet 

have  felt 
All  that  Hamlet  hath  uttered,  and  haply 

where,  pure 
On   its   death-bed,  wronged   Love  lay, 

have  moaned  with  the  Moor  ! 


II. 

When  Lord  Alfred  that  night  to  the  salon 

returned 
He  found  it  deserted.     The  lamp  dimly 

burned 
As  though  half  out  of  humor  to  find  itself 

there 
Forced  to  light  for  no  purpose  a  room 

that  was  bare. 
He  sat    down    by  the   window   alone. 

Never  yet 

Did  the  heavens  a  lovelier  evening  beget 
Since  Latona's  bright  childbed  that  bore 

the  new  moon  ! 
The  dark  world  lay  still,  in  a  sort  of 

sweet  swoon, 
Wide  open  to  heaven  ;  and  the  stars  on 

the  stream 
Were  trembling  like  eyes  that  are  loved 

on  the  dream 
Of  a  lover  ;  and  all  things  were  glad  and 

at  rest 


108 


LUCILE. 


Save  the  unquiet  heart  in  his  own  troubled 

breast. 
He  endeavored  to  think,  —  an  unwonted 

employment, 
Which  api>eared  to  afford  him  no  sort 

of  enjoyment. 

in. 

"  Withdraw  into  yourself.     But,  if  peace 

you  seek  there  for, 
Your  reception,  beforehand,  be  sure  to 

prepare  for," 
Wrote  the  tutor  of  Nero  ;  who  wrote,  be 

it  said, 
Better  far  than  he  acted,  —  but  peace  to 

the  dead  ! 
He  bled  for  his  pupil :  what  more  could 

he  do  ? 
But  Lord  Alfred,  when  into  himself  he 

withdrew, 
Found  all  then;  in  disorder.     For  more 

than  an  hour 
He  sat  with  his  head  drooped  like  some 

stubborn  llower 
Beaten  down  by  the  rush  of  the  rain,  — 

with  such  force 
Did  the   thick,  gushing  thoughts  hold 

upon  him  the  course 
Of  their  sudden  descent,  rapid,  rushing, 

and  dim, 
From  the  cloud  that  had  darkened  the 

evening  for  him. 
At  one  moment  he  rose, —  roseandopened 

the  door, 
And   wistfully   looked   down   the   dark 

corridor 
Toward   the  room   of  Matilda.     Anon, 

with  a  sigh 
Of   an    incomplete    purpose,    he    crept 

quietly 

Back  again  to  his  place  in  a  sort  of  sub- 
mission 
To  doubt,  and   returned  to  his  former 

position,  — 
That  loose  fall  of  the  arms,  that  dull 

droop  of  the  face, 
And  the  eye  vaguely  fixed  on  impalpable 

space. 
The  dream,   which  till  then  had   been 

lulling  his  life, 
As   once   Circe   the   winds,   had   sealed 

thought  ;  and  his  wife 
And  his  home  for  a  time  he  had  quite, 

like  Ulysses, 
Forgotten  ;  but  cow  o'er  the  troubled 

abystes 


Of  the  spirit  within  him,  aolian,  forth 

leapt 
To  their  freedom  new-found,  and  resist- 

lessly  swept 
All  his  heart  into  tumult,  the  thoughtg 

which  had  been 
Long  pent  up  in  their  mystic  recesses 

unseen. 


How  long  he  thus  sat  there,  himself  he 
knew  not, 

Till  he  started,  as  though  he  were  sud- 
denly shot, 

To  the  sound  of  a  voice  too  familiar  to 
doubt, 

Which  was  making  some  noise  in  the 
passage  without. 

A  sound  English  voice,  with  a  round 
English  accent, 

Which  the  scared  German  echoes  resent- 
fully back  sent ; 

The  complaint  of  a  much  disappointed 
cab-driver 

Mingled  with  it,  demanding  some  ulti- 
mate stiver  : 

Then,  the  heavy  and  hurried  approach 
of  a  boot 

Which  revealed  by  its  sound  no  diminu- 
tive foot : 

And  the  door  was  flung  suddenly  open, 
and  on 

The  threshold  Lord  Alfred  by  bachelor 
John 

Was  seized  in  that  sort  of  affectionate 
rage  or 

Frenzy  of  hugs  which  some  stout  Ursa 
Major 

On  some  lean  Ursa  Minor  would  doubt- 
less bestow 

With  a  warmth  for  which  only  starvation 
and  snow 

Could  render  one  grateful.  As  soon  as 
he  could, 

Lord  Alfred  contrived  to  escape,  nor  be 
food 

Any  more  for  those  somewhat  voracious 
embraces. 

Then  the  two  men  sat  down  and  scanned 
each  other's  faces ; 

And  Alfred  could  see  that  his  cousin  was 
taken 

With  unwonted  emotion.  The  hand 
that  had  shaken 

His  own  trembled  somewhat.  In  truth 
he  descried, 

At  a  glance,  something  wrong. 


LUCILE. 


109 


"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  he  cried. 
"  What  have  you  to  tell  me  ? " 

/       JOHN. 

What  !  have  you  not  heard  ? 

ALFRED. 
Heard  what  ? 

JOHN. 
This  sad  business  — 

ALFRED. 

I  ?  no,  not  a  word. 

JOHN. 
You  received  my  last  letter  ? 

ALFRED. 

I  think  so.     If  not, 
What  then  ? 

JOHN. 
You  have  acted  upon  it  ? 

ALFRED. 

On  what  ? 
JOHN. 
The  advice  that  I  gave  you  — 

ALFRED. 

Advice  ?  —  let  me  see  ! 
You  always  are  giving  advice,  Jack,  to 

me. 
About  Parliament  was  it  ? 

JOHN. 

Hang  Parliament !   no, 
The  Bank,  the  Bank,  Alfred  ! 

ALFRED. 
What  Bank  ? 

JOHN. 

Heavens  !     I  know 
You  are  careless  ;  —  but  surely  you  have 

not  forgotten,  — 
Or  neglected  ...  I  warned  you  the  whole 

thing  was  rotten. 
You  have  drawn  those  deposits  at  least  ? 

ALFRED. 

No,  I  meant 
To  have  written  to-day ;   but  the  note 

shall  be  sent 
To-morrow,  however. 


JOHN. 

To-morrow  ?  too  late  ! 
Too  late  !    0,  what  devil  bewitched  you 
to  wait  ? 

ALFRED. 
Mercy  save  us  !  you  don't  mean  to  say .  . . 

JOHN. 


ALFRED. 
What !  Sir  Ridley  ? .  .  . 


Yes,  I  do. 


JOHN. 

Smashed,  broken,  blown  up,  bolted 
too! 

ALFRED. 

But  his  own  niece  ?  .  .  .   In  heaven's 
name,  Jack  .  .  . 

JOHN. 

0,  I  told  you 
The  old  hypocritical  scoundrel  would . . . 

ALFRED. 

Hold  !  you 
Surely  can't  mean  we  are  ruined  ? 

JOHN. 

Sit  down  ! 

A  fortnight  ago  a  report  about  town 
Made  me  most  apprehensive.     Alas,  and 

alas  ! 
I  at  once  wrote  and  warned  you.     Well, 

now  let  that  pass. 

A  run  on  the  Bank  about  five  days  ago 
Confirmed  my  forebodings  too  terribly, 

though. 
I  drove  down  to  the  city  at  once  :  found 

the  door 
Of  the  Bank  close  :  the  Bank  had  stopped 

payment  at  four. 
Next  morning  the  failure  was  known  to 

be  fraud  : 
Warrant  out  for  MacNab  ;  but  MacNaTs 

was  abroad  : 
Gone  —  we   cannot   tell  where.     I   en. 

deavored  to  get 
Information  :  have  learned  nothing  cer. 

tain  as  yet,  — 
Not  even  the  way  that  old  Ridley  was 

gone  : 
Or  with  those  securities  what  he  had 

done  : 
Or  whether  they  had  been  already  called 

out: 


110 


LUCILE. 


If  they  are  not,  their  fate  is,  I  fear,  past 

a  doubt. 
Twenty  families  ruined,  they  say  :  what 

was  left,  — 

Unable  to  find  any  clew  to  the  cleft 
The  old  fox  ran  to  earth  in,  —  but  join 

you  as  fast 
As  I  could,  my  dear  Alfred  ?  * 


He  stopped  here,  aghast 
At  the  change  in  his  cousin,  the  hue  of 

whose  face 
Had  grown  livid  ;   and  glassy  his  eyes 

fixed  on  space. 
"  Courage,  courage  ! "    ...    said  John, 

..."  bear  the  blow  like  a  man  !  " 
And  he  caught  the  cold  hand  of  Lord 

Alfred.     There  ran 
Through  that  hand  a  quick  tremor.     "  I 

bear  it,"  he  said, 
"But  Matilda?  the  blow  is  to  her!" 

And  his  head 
Seemed  forced  down,  as  he  said  it. 

JOHN. 

Matilda  ?    Pooh,  pooh  ! 
I  half  think  I  know  the  girl  better  than 

you. 
She  has  courage  enough  —  and  to  spare. 

She  cares  less 

Than  most  women  for  luxury,  nonsense, 
and  dress. 

ALFRED. 
The  fault  has  been  mine. 

JOHN. 

Be  it  yours  to  repair  it : 
If  you  did  not  avert,  you  may  help  her 
to  bear  it. 

ALFRED. 
I  might  have  averted. 

JOHN. 

Perhaps  so.     But  now 
There  is  clearly  no  use  in  considering 
how, 

•  These  events,  it  is  needless  to  say,  Mr.  Morse, 
Took  place  when  Bad  News  as  yet  travelled 

by  horse. 
Ere  the  world,  like  a  cockchafer,  buzzed  on  a 

wire, 

Or  Time  was  calcined  by  electrical  firr  ; 
Ere  n  cable  went  under  the  hoary  Atlantir, 
Or  the  word  Telegram  drove  grammarians 

frantic. 


Or  whence,  came  the  mischief.      The 

mischief  is  here. 
Broken  shins  are  not  mended  by  crying, 

—  that  'a  clear  ! 
One  has  but  to  rub  them,  and  get  up 

again, 
And  push  on,  —  and  not  think  too  much 

of  the  pain. 
And  at  least  it  is  much  that  you  see 

that  to  her 
You  owe  too  much  to  think  of  yourself. 

You  must  stir 
And  arouse    yourself,    Alfred,    for   her 

sake.     Who  knows  ? 
Something  yet  may  be  saved  from  this 

wreck.     I  suppose 
We  shall  make  him  disgorge  all  he  can, 

at  the  least. 

"  0  Jack,  I  have  been  a  brute  idiot !  a 

beast  ! 
A  fool !     I  have  sinned,  and  to  her  I 

have  sinned ! 
I  have  been  heedless,  blind,  inexcusably 

blind! 
And  now,  in  a  flash,  I  see  all  things  !  " 

As  though 
To  shut  out  the  vision,  he  bowed  his 

head  low 
On  his  hands  ;   and  the  great  tears  in 

silence  rolled  on, 
And  fell  momently,   heavily,  one  after 

one. 
John    felt    no    desire  to    find   instant 

relief 
For  the  trouble  he  witnessed. 

He  guessed,  in  the  grief 
Of  his  cousin,  the  broken  and  heartfelt 

admission 
Of  some  error  demanding  a  heartfelt. 

contrition  : 
Some   oblivion   perchance  which  could-/ 

plead  less  excuse 
To  the  heart  of  a  man  re-aroused  to  the 

use 
Of  the  conscience  God  gave  him,  than. 

simply  and  merely 

The  neglect  for  which  now  he  was  pay- 
ing so  dearly. 
So  he  rose  without  speaking,  and  paced 

up  and  down 
The  long  room,  much  afflicted,  indeed, 

in  his  own 
Cordial  heart  fur  .Matilda. 

Thus,  silently  lost 
In  his  anxious   reflections,   he   crossed 

;.n<l  recrossed. 


HE   BOWED   HIS    HEAD    LOW   ON    HIS   HANDS.' 


LUCILE. 


Ill 


The  place  where  his  cousin   yet  hope- 
lessly hung 

O'er  the  table ;    his   fingers   entwisted 
among 

The  rich  curls  they  were  knotting  and 
dragging  :  and  there, 

That  sound  of  all  sounds  the  most  pain- 
ful to  hear, 

The  sobs  of  a  man  !     Yet  so  far  in  his  own 

Kindly  thoughts  was  he  plunged,  he  al- 
ready had  grown 

Unconscious  of  Alfred. 

And  so  for  a  space 

There  was  silence  between  them. 

VII. 

At  last,  with  sad  face 
He  stopped  short,  and  bent  on  his  cousin 

awhile 
A  pained  sort  of  wistful,  compassionate 

smile, 
Approached  him,  —  stood  o'er  him,  — 

and  suddenly  laid 
One  hand  on  his  shoulder  — 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  he  said. 
Alfred  lifted  his  face  all  disfigured  with 

tears 
And  gazed  vacantly  at  him,   like  one 

that  appears 
In  some  foreign  language  to  hear  himself 

greeted, 
Unable  to  answer. 

"  "Where  is  she  ? "  repeated 
His  cousin. 

He  motioned  his  hand  to  the  door ; 
"There,  I  think,"  he  replied.     Cousin 

John  said  no  more, 

And  appeared  to  relapse  to  his  own  cog- 
itations, 

Of  which  not  a  gesture  vouchsafed  indi- 
cations. 
So  again  there  was  silence. 

A  timepiece  at  last 
Struck  the  twelve  strokes  of  midnight. 

Eoused  by  them,  he  cast 
A  half-look  to  the  dial ;   then  quietly 

threw 
His  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  cousin, 

and  drew 
The  hands  down  from  his  face. 

"It  is  time  she  should  know 
What  has  happened,"  he  said,  ...  "let 

us  go  to  her  now." 
Alfred  started  at  once  to  his  feet. 

Drawn  and  wan 
Though  his  face,  he  looked  more  than 

his  wont  was  —  a  man, 


Strong  for  once,  in  his  weakfrjss.     Up- 
lifted, filled  through 
With  a  manly  resolve. 

If  that  axiom  be  true 
Of  the  "  Sum  quia  cogito,"  I  must  opine 
That  "  id  sum  quod  cogito  "  -.  —  that 

which,  in  fiue, 
A  man  thinks  and  feels,  with  his  whole 

force  of  thought 
And  feeling,  the  man  is  himself. 

He  had  fought 

With  himself,  and  rose  up  from  his  self- 
overthrow 
The  survivor  of  much  which  that  strife 

had  laid  low. 
At  his  feet,  as  he  rose  at  the  name  of 

his  wife, 
Lay   in   ruins  the   brilliant   unrealized 

life 
Which,  though  yet  unfulfilled,  seemed 

till  then,  in  that  name, 
To  be   his,    had  he   claimed  it.      The 

man's  dream  of  fame 
And  of  power  fell  shattered  before  him  ; 

and  only 
There  rested  the  heart  of  the  woman,  so 

lonely 
In  all  save  the  love  he  could  give  her. 

The  lord 
Of  that   heart   he   arose.      Blush  not, 

Muse,  to  record 
That  his  first  thought,  and  last,  at  that 

moment  was  not 
Of  the  power  and  fame  that  seemed  lost 

to  his  lot, 
But  the  love  that  was  left  to  it ;  not  of 

the  pelf 
He  had  cared  for,  yet  squandered  ;  and 

not  of  himself, 
But  of  her  ;  as  he  murmured, 

"  One  moment,  dear  Jack  ! 
We  have  grown  up  from  boyhood  to- 
gether.    Our  track 
Has  been  through  the  same  meadows  in 

childhood  :  in  youth 
Through  the  same  silent  gateways,  to 

manhood.     In  truth, 
There  is  none  that  can  know  me  as  you 

do  ;  and  none 
To  whom  I  more  wish  to  believe  myself 

known. 
Speak  the  truth  ;  you  are  not  wont  to 

mince  it,  I  know. 
Nor  I,  shall  I  shirk  it,  or  shrink  from  it 

now. 
In  despite  of  a  wanton    behavior,  in 

spit* 


112 


LUCILE. 


Of  vanity,  folly,  and  pride,  Jack,  which 

might 
Have   turned   from    me   many   a   heart 

strong  and  true 
As  your  own,  I  have  never  turned  round 

and  missed  YOU 
From  my  side  in  one  hour  of  affliction 

or  doubt 
l>y  my  own  blind  and  heedless  self-will 

brought  about. 
Tell  me  truth.     Do  I  owe  this  alone  to 

the  sake 
Of  those  old   recollections  of  boyhood 

that  make 
In  your  heart  yet  some  clinging  and 

crying  appeal 
From  a  judgment  more  harsh,  which  1 

cannot  tmt  fed 
Might  have  sentenced  our  friendship  to 

death  long  ago  ? 
Or  is  it  ...  (I  would  I  could  deem  it 

were  so  !) 

That,  not  all  overlaid  by  a  listless  exte- 
rior, 
Your  heart  has  divined  in  me  something 

superior 

To  that  which  I  seem  ;  from  my  inner- 
most nature 
Not    wholly   expelled    by  the    world's 

usurpature  ? 
Some  instinct  of  earnestness,  truth,  or 

desire 
For   truth  ?     Some   one   spark    of   the 

soul's  native  fire 
Moving  under  the  ashes,  and  cinders, 

and  dust 
Which  life  hath  heaped  o'er  it  ?    Some 

one  fact  to  trust 
And  to  hope  in  ?    Or  by  you  alone  am  I 

deemed 
The  mere  frivolous  fool  I  so  often  have 

seemed 
To  my  own  self?" 

JOHN. 

No,  Alfred  !  you  will,  I  believe, 
Be  true,  at  the  last,  to  what  now  makes 

you  grieve 
For  having  belied  your  true  nature  so 

long. 
Necessity  is  a  stern  teacher.     Be  strong  ! 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  resumed ..."  what 
I  feel  while  I  speak 

Is  no  more  than  a  transient  emotion,  as 
weak 

As  these  weak  tears  would  seem  to  be- 
token it  ? " 


JOHN. 

No! 
ALFRED. 

Thank   you,   cousin  !    your  hand  then. 

And  now  I  will  go 
Alone,  Jack.     TniM  tn  m< .-. 

VIII. 

JOHN. 

I  do.     But  't  isl.-itr-. 
If  she  sleeps,  you'll  not  wake  her. 

ALFKKD. 

No,  no  !  it  will  wait 
(Poor  infant !)  too  surely,  this  ii 

of  sorrow  ; 
If  she  sleeps,  I  will  not  mar  her  ilivam.s 

of  to-morrow. 
He  opened  the  door,  and  passed  put 

Cousin  John 

Watched  him  wistful,  and  left  him  to 
seek  her  alone. 


His  heart  beat  so  loud  when  he  knocked 

at  her  door, 
He  could  hear  no  reply  from  within. 

Yet  once  more 
He  knocked  lightly.     No  answer.     The 

handle  he  tried  : 
The  door  opened  :  he  entered  the  room 

undescried. 


No  brighter  than  is  that  dim  circlet  of 


Which  enhaloes  the  moon  when  rains 

form  on  the  night, 
The  pale  lamp  and  indistinct  radiance 

shed 
Round   the   chamber,   in  which  at  her 

pure  snowy  bed 
Matilda  was  kneeling  ;  so  wrapt  in  deep 

prayer 
That  she  knew  not  her  husband  stood 

watching  her  there. 
With  the  lamplight  the  moonlight  had 

mingled  a  faint 
And  unearthly  effulgence  which  seemed 

to  acquaint 
The  whole  place  with  a  sense  of  deep 

peace  made  secure 
By  the  presence  of  something   angelic 

and  pure. 
And  not  purer  some  angel  Grief  carves 

o'er  the  tomb 


MATILDA  WAS  KNEELING:   so  WRAPT  IN  DEEP  PRAYER" 


LUCILE. 


113 


Where   Love  lies,   than  the  lady  that 
kneeled  in  that  gloom. 

She   had   put   off  her   dress ;    and   she 
looked  to  his  eyes 

Like  a  young   soul    escaped  from    its 
earthly  disguise  ; 

Her  fair  neck  and  innocent  shoulders 
were  bare, 

And  over  them  rippled  her  soft  golden 
hair ; 

Her  simple  and  slender  white   bodice 
unlaced 

Confined  not  one  curve  of  her  delicate 
waist. 

As  the  light  that,  from  water  reflected, 
forever 

Trembles  up  through  the  tremulous  reeds 
of  a  river, 

So  the  beam  of  her  beauty  went  trem- 
bling in  him, 

Through  the  thoughts  it  suffused  with 
a  sense  soft  and  dim, 

Reproducing  itself  in  the  broken  and 
bright 

Lapse  and  pulse  of  a  million  emotions. 
That  sight 

Bowed  his  heart,  bowed  his  knee.    Know- 
ing scarce  what  he  did, 

To  her  side  through  the  chamber  he  si- 
lently slid, 

And  knelt  down  beside  her,  — and  prayed 
at  her  side. 


Upstarting,  she  then  for  the  first  time 

descried 
That  her  husband  was  near  her ;  suffused 

with  the  blush 
Which  came  o'er  her  soft  pallid  cheek 

with  a  gush 
Where  the  tears  sparkled  yet. 

As  a  young  fawn  uncouches, 
Shy  with  fear,  from  the  fern  where  some 

hunter  approaches, 
She  shrank  back  ;  he  caught  her,  and 

circling  his  arm 
Round  her  waist,  on  her  brow  pressed 

one  kiss  long  and  warm. 
Then  her  fear  changed  in  impulse  ;  and 

hiding  her  face 
On  his  breast,   she  hung  locked   in   a 

clinging  embrace 
With  her  soft  arms  wound  heavily  round 

him,  as  though 
She  feared,  if  their  clasp  were  relaxed, 

he  would  go  : 
8 


Her  smooth  naked  shoulders,  uncared 

for,  convulsed 
By  sob  after  sob,  while  her  bosom  yet 

pulsed 

In  its  pressure  on  his,  as  the  effort  with- 
in it 

Lived  and  died  with  each  tender,  tumul- 
tuous minute. 
"0  Alfred,  0  Alfred  !  forgive  me,"  she 

cried,  — 
"Forgive  me  ! " 

"  Forgive  you,   my  poor  child  ! "  he 

sighed  ; 
"  But  I  never  have  blamed  you  for  aught 

that  I  know, 

And  I  have  not  one  thought  that  re- 
proaches you  now." 
From   her  arms  he  unwound   himself 

gently.     And  so 
He  forced  her  down  softly  beside  him. 

Below 
The  canopy  shading  their  couch,  they 

sat  down. 
And  he  said,  clasping  firmly  her  hand 

in  his  own, 
' '  When  a  proud  man,  Matilda,  has  found 

out  at  length, 
That  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  midst  of 

his  strength, 
But  a  fool  in  his  wisdom,  to  whom  can 

he  own 
The  weakness  which  thus  to  himself  hath 

been  shown  ? 
From  whom  seek  the  strength  which  his 

need  of  is  sore, 
Although  in  his  pride  he  might  perish, 

before 
He  could  plead  for  the  one,  or  the  other 

avow 
'Mid  his  intimate  friends  ?    Wife  of  mine, 

tell  me  now, . 

Do  you  join  me  in  feeling,  in  that  dark- 
ened hour, 
The  sole  friend  that  can  have  the  right 

or  the  power 
To  be  at  his  side,  is  the  woman  that 

shares 
His  fate,  if  he  falter ;  the  woman  that 

bears 
The  name  dear  for  her  sake,  and  hallows 

the  life 
She   has   mingled  her  own   with,. —  in 

short,  that  man's  wife  ? " 
"Yes,"  murmured  Matilda,  "0  yes  !" 
"Then,"  he  cried, 
"This  chamber  in  which  we  two  sit, 

side  by  side 


114 


LUCILE. 


(And  his  arm,  as  he  spoke,  seemed  more 
softly  to  press  her), 

Is  now  n  confessional, — you,  my  con- 
fessor ! " 

"I?"  she  faltered,   and  timidly  lifted 

her  llruil. 

"Yes  !  but  first  answer  one  other  ques- 
tion," he  said  : 
"When  a  woman  once  feels  that  she  is 

not  alone  ; 
That  the  heart  of  another  is  warmed  by 

her  own  ; 
That  another  feels  with  her  whatever 

she  feel, 
And  halves  her  existence  in  woe  or  in 

weal ; 
That  a  man  for  her  sake  will,  so  long  as 

he  lives, 
Live  to  put  forth  his  strength  which  the 

thought  of  her  gives  ; 
Live  to  shield  her  from  want,  and  to 

share  with  her  sorrow  ; 
Live  to  solace  the  day,  and  provide  for 

the  morrow  : 
Will  that  woman  feel  less  than  another, 

0  say, 

The  loss  of  what  life,  sparing  this,  takes 

away  ? 

Will  she  feel  (feeling  this),  when  calam- 
ities come, 
That  they  brighten  the  heart,  though 

they  darken  the  home  ?  " 
She  turned,  like  a  soft  rainy  heaven,  on 

him 
Eyes  that  smiled  through  fresh  tears, 

trustful,  tender,  and  dim. 
"  That  woman,"  she  murmured,  "indeed 

were  thrice  blest !  " 
"  Then  courage,  true  wife  of  my  heart ! " 

to  his  breast 
As  he  folded  and  gathered  her  closely, 

he  cried. 
"  For  the  refuge,  to-night  in  these  arms 

opened  wide 
To  your  heart,  can  be  never  closed  to  it 

again, 
And  this  room  is  for  both  an  asylum  ! 

For  when 
I  passed  through  that  door,  at  the  door 

1  left  there 

A  calamity,  sudden,  and  heavy  to  bear. 
One  step  from  that  threshold,  and  daily, 

I  fear, 
We  must   face   it  henceforth  :    but   it 

enters  not  here, 
For  that  door  shuts  it  out,  and  admits 

here  .alone 


A  heart  which  calamity  leaves  all  your 

own  ! " 
She  started  .  .  .  "Calamity,  Alfred!  to 

you  ? " 
"To  both,  my  poor  child,   but  'twill 

bring  with  it  too 
The  courage,  1  trust,  to  subdue  it." 

"  0  speak  ! 
Speak!"  she   faltered  in   tones  timid, 

anxious,  and  weak. 
"O  yet  for  a  moment,"  he  said,  "hear 

me  on! 
Matilda,  this  morn  we  went  forth  in  the 

sun, 
Like   those   children   of  sunshine,    the 

bright  summer  flies, 
That  sport  in  the  sunbeam,   and  play 

through  the  skies 
While   the   skies  smile,   and  heed  not 

each  other  :  at  last, 
When  their  sunbeam  is  gone,  and  their 

sky  overcast, 
Who  recks  in  what  ruin  they  fold  their 

wet  wings  ? 
So  indeed  the  morn  found   us,  —  poor 

frivolous  things  ! 

Now  our  sky  is  o'ercast,  and  our  sun- 
beam is  set, 
And  the  night  brings  its  darkness  around 

us.     O,  yet, 
Have  we  weathered  no  storm  through 

those  twelve  cloudless  hours  ? 
Yes  ;  you,  too,  have  wept  ! 

"While  the  world  was  yet  ours, 
While  its  sun  was  upon  us,  its  incense 

streamed  to  us, 
And  its  myriad  voices  of  joy  seemed  to 

woo  us, 
We  strayed  from  each  other,  too  far,  it 

may  be, 

Nor,  wantonly  wandering,  then  did  I  see 
How  deep  was  my  need  of  thee,  dearest, 

how  great 
Was  thy  claim  on  my  heart  and  thy 

share  in  my  fate  ! 
But,   Matilda,   an   angel  was  near  us, 

meanwhile, 

Watching  o'er  us,  to  warn,  and  to  rescue  ! 

"  That  smile 

Which   you   saw   with    suspicion,   that 

presence  you  eyed 
With  resentment,  an  angel's  they  were 

at  your  side 
And  at  mine  ;  nor  perchance  is  the  day 

all  so  far, 
Whi-n    \vo  both   in  our   prayers,    when 

most  heartfelt  they  are, 


LUCILE. 


115 


May  murmur  the  name  of  that  woman 

now  gone 
From  our  sight  evermore. 

"Here,  this  evening,  alone, 
I  seek  your  forgiveness,  in  opening  my 

heart 
Unto  yours,  —  from  this  clasp  be  it  never 

to  part  ! 
Matilda,  the  fortune  you  brought  me  is 

gone, 
But  a  prize  richer  far  than  that  fortune 

has  won 
It  is  yours  to  confer,  and  I  kneel  for 

that  prize, 

'T  is  the  heart  of  my  wife  !  "     With  suf- 
fused happy  eyes 
She  sprang  from   her  seat,    flung   her 

arms  wide  apart, 
And  tenderly  closing  them  round  him, 

his  heart 
Clasped  in   one   close   embrace  to    her 

bosom ;  and  there 
Drooped  her  head  on  his  shoulder  ;  and 

sobbed. 

Not  despair, 
Not  sorrow,  not  even  the  sense  of  her 

loss, 

Flowed  in  those  happy  tears,  so  oblivi- 
ous she  was 
Of  all  save  the  sense  of  her  own  love  ! 

Anon, 
However,  his  words  rushed  back  to  her. 

"  All  gone, 
The  fortune  you  brought  me  !  " 

And  eyes  that  were  dim 
With  soft  tears  she  upraised  :  but  those 

tears  were  for  him. 
"  Gone  !  my  husband  ?"  she  said,  "tell 

me  all  !  see  !  I  need, 
To   sober  this   rapture,    so   selfish   in- 
deed, 
Fuller  sense  of  affliction." 

"  Poor  innocent  child  !  " 
He  kissed  her  fair  forehead,  and  mourn- 
fully smiled, 
As  he  told  her  the  tale  he  had  heard,  — 

something  more 
The  gain  found  in  loss  of  what  gain  lost 

of  yore. 
"Rest,  my  heart,  and  my  brain,  and 

my  right  hand  for  you  ; 
And  with  these,  my  Matilda,  what  may 

I  not  do  ? 
You  know  not,  I  knew  not  myself  till 

this  hour, 
Which  so  sternly  revealed  it,  my  nature's 

full  power."  . 


"  And  I  too,"  she  murmured,  "  I  too  am 

no  more 
The  mere  infant  at  heart  you  have  known 

me  before. 
I  have  suffered  since  then.  I  have  learned 

much  in  life. 
0  take,  with  the  faith  I  have  pledged  as 

a  wife, 
The  heart  I  have  learned  as  a  woman  to 

feel! 
For  I  —  love  you,  my  husband  !  " 

As  though  to  conceal 
Less  from  him,  than  herself,  what  that 

motion  expressed, 
She  dropped  her  bright  head,  and  hid 

all  on  his  breast. 

"0  lovely  as  woman,  beloved  as  wife  ! 
Evening  star  of  my  heart,  light  forever 

my  life  ! 
If  from  eyes  fixed  too  long  on  this  base 

earth  thus  far 
You  have  missed  your  due  homage,  dear 

guardian  star, 
Believe  that,  uplifting  those  eyes  unto 

heaven, 
There  I  see  you,  and  know  you,   and 

bless  the  light  given 
To  lead  me  to  life's  late  achievement ; 

my  own, 
My  blessing,  my  treasure,  my  all  things 


How  lovely  she  looked  in  the  lovely 

moonlight, 
That  streamed  through  the  pane  from 

the  blue  balmy  night ! 
How  lovely  she  looked  in  her  own  lovely 

youth, 
As  she  clung  to  his  side  full  of  trust,  and 

of  truth  ! 

How  lovely  to  him  as  he  tenderly  pressed 
Her  young  head  on  his  bosom,  and  sadly 

caressed 
The  glittering  tresses  which  now  shaken 

loose 
Showered    gold    in    his    hand,    as    he 

smoothed  them  ! 

XIII. 

0  Muse, 
Interpose   not  one  pulse  of  thine  own 

beating  heart 
'Twixt  these  two  silent  souls  !    There 's 

a  joy  beyond  art, 
And  beyond  sound  the  music  it  makes 

in  the  breast. 


116 


LUCILE. 


XIV. 
Here  were  lovers  twice  wed,  that 

happy  at  leaM  ! 
No  music,  save  such  as  the  nightingales 

sung, 
Breathed  their  bridals  abroad  ;  and  no 

rro.srt,    Uphuilg, 

Lit   that  festival  hour,   save  what  soft 

light  was  given 
From  the  pure  stars  that  peopled  the 

deep-purple  heaven. 
He  opened  the  casement :   he  led  her 

with  him, 
Hushed  in  heart,  to  the  terrace,  dipped 

cool  in  the  dim 
Lustrous  gloom  of  the  shadowy  laurels. 

They  heard 

Aloof  the  invisible,  rapturous  bird, 
With   her   wild   note    bewildering    the 

woodlands  :  they  saw- 
Not  unheard,  afar  off,   the  hill-rivulet 

draw 
His  long  ripple  of  moon-kindled  wavelets 

with  cheer 
From  the  throat  of  the  vale ;   o'er  the 

dark-sapphire  sphere 
The  mild,  multitudinous  lights  lay  asleep, 
Pastured  free  on  the  midnight,  and  bright 

as  the  sheep 
Of  Apollo    in    pastoral    Thrace ;    from 

unknown 
Hollow  glooms  freshened  odors  around 

them  were  blown 
Intermittingly  ;  then  the  moon  dropped 

from  their  sight, 
Immersed  in  the  mountains,  and  put  out 

the  light 
Which  no  longer  they  needed  to  read  on 

the  face 
Of  each  other's  life's  last  revelation. 

The  place 

Slept  sumptuous  round  them  ;  and  Na- 
ture, that  never 
Sleeps,  but  waking  reposes,  with  patient 

endeavor 

Continued  about  them,  unheeded,  unseen, 
Her  old,  quiet  toil  in  the  heart  of  the 

green 
Summer  silence,  preparing  new  buds  for 

new  blossoms, 
And  stealing  a  finger  of  change  o'er  the 

bosoms 
Of    the    unconscious   woodlands ;    and 

Time,  that  halts  not 
His  forces,  how  lovely  soever  the  spot 
Where  their  march  lies,  —  the  wary,  gray 

strategist,  Time, 


With  the  armies  of  Life,  lay 
—  Grief  and  <  'rime, 

Love  and    Faith,   in   the  darkness  un- 
hei-ded  ;  maturing, 

For  his  great  war  with  man,  new  sur- 
prises ;  securing 

All  outlets,  pursuing  and  pushing  his 
foe 

To  his  last  narrow  refuge,  — the  grave. 


Sweetly  though 

Smiled  the  stars  like  new  hopes  out  of 
heaven,  and  sweetly 

Their  hearts  beat  thanksgiving  for  all 
things,  completely 

Confiding  in  that  yet  untrodden  exist- 
ence 

Over  which  they  were  pausing.  To- 
morrow, resistance 

And  struggle ;  to-night,  Love  his  hal- 
lowed device 

Hung  forth,  and  proclaimed  his  serene 
armistice. 


CANTO  V. 


WHEN  Lucile  left  Matilda,  she  sat  for 
long  hours 

In  her  chamber,  fatigued  by  long  over- 
wrought powers, 

'Mid  the  signs  of  departure,  about  to 
turn  back 

To  her  old  vacant  life,  on  her  old  home- 
less track. 

She   felt  her  heart   falter  within   her. 
She  sat 

Like  some  poor  player,  gazing  dejectedly 
at 

The  insignia  of  royalty  worn  for  a  night  ; 

Exhausted,    fatigued,    with    the    dazzle 
and  light, 

And  the  effort  of  passionate  feigning ; 
who  thinks 

Of  her  own  meagre,  rush-lighted  garret, 
and  shrinks 

From  the  chill  of  the  change  that  awaits 
her. 

ir. 
From  these 

Oppressive,  and  comfortless,  blank  rev- 
eries, 

Unable  to  sleep,  she  descended  the  stair 

That  led  from  her  room  to  the  garden. 


LUCILE. 


117 


The  air, 
With  the  chill  of  the  dawn,  yet  unrisen, 

but  at  hand, 
Strangely  smote  on  her  feverish  forehead. 

The  land 
Lay  in  darkness  and  change,  like  a  world 

in  its  grave  : 
No  sound,  save  the  voice  of  the  long 

river  wave, 

And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the  night ! 

She  stood  still, 

Vaguely  watching  the  thin  cloud  that 

curled  on  the  hill. 
Emotions,  long  pent  in  her  breast,  were 

at  stir, 
And  the  deeps  of  the  spirit  were  troubled 

in  her. 

Ah,  pale  woman  !  what,  with  that  heart- 
broken look, 
Didst  thou  read  then  in  nature's  weird 

heart-breaking  book  ? 
Have  the  wild  rains  of  heaven  a  father  ? 

and  who 
Hath  in  pity  begotten  the  drops  of  the 

dew? 

Orion,  Arcturus,  who  pilots  them  both  ? 
What  leads  forth  in  his  season  the  bright 

Mazaroth  ? 
Hath  the  darkness  a  dwelling,  —  save 

there,  in  those  eyes  ? 
And  what  name  hath  that  half-revealed 

hope  in  the  skies  ? 

Ay,    question,   and  listen  !     What  an- 
swer ? 

The  sound 

Of  the  long  river  wave  through  its  stone- 
troubled  bound, 

And  the  crickets  that  sing  all  the  night. 

There  are  hours 

Which  belong  to  unknown,  supernatural 

powers, 
Whose  sudden  and  solemn  suggestions 

are  all 
That  to  this  race  of  worms  —  stinging 

creatures,  that  crawl,  • 
Lie,  and  fear,   and   die  daily,   beneath 

their  own  stings  • — 
Can  excuse  the  blind  boast  of  inherited 

wings. 

When  the  soul,  on  the  impulse  of  an- 
guish, hath  passed 
Beyond  anguish,  and  risen  into  rapture 

at  last  ; 
When  she  traverses  nature  and  space, 

till  she  stands 
lu  the  Chamber  of  Fate  ;  where,  through 

tremulous  hands, 


Hum  the  threads  from  an  old-fashioned 

distaff  uncurled, 
And  those  three   blind  old  women  sit 

spinning  the  world. 


The  dark  was  blanched  wan,  overhead. 

One  green  star. 
Was  slipping  from  sight  in  the  pale  void 

afar ; 
The  spirits  of  change,  and  of  awe,  with 

faint  breath 
Were  shifting  the  midnight,  above  and 

beneath. 
The  spirits  of  awe  and  of  change  were 

around, 
And  about,  and  upon  her. 

A  dull  muffled  sound, 
And  a  hand  on  her  hand,  like  a  ghostly 

surprise, 
And  she  felt  herself  fixed  by  the  hot 

hollow  eyes 
Of  the   Frenchman   before  her :   those 

eyes  seemed  to  burn, 
And  scorch  out  the  darkness  between 

them,  and  turn 
Into  fire  as  they  fixed  her.     He  looked 

like  the  shade 
Of  a  creature  by  fancy  from   solitude 

made, 
And  sent  forth  by  the  darkness  to  scare 

and  oppress 

Some  soul  of  a  monk  in  a  waste  wilder- 
ness. 


"  At  last,  then,  —  at  last,  and  alone,  — 

I  and  thou, 
Lucile  de  Nevers,  have  we  met  ? 

"  Hush  !  I  know 
Not  for  me  was  the  tryst.     Never  mind  ! 

it  is  mine ; 
And  whatever  led  hither  those  proud 

steps  of  thine, 
They  remove  not,  until  we  have  spoken. 

My  hour 
Is  come  ;  and  it  holds  thee  and  me  in  its 

power, 
As  the  darkness  holds  both  the  horizons. 

'T  is  well ! 

The  timidest  maiden  that  e'er  to  the  spell 
Of  her  first  lover's  vows  listened,  hushed 

with  delight, 
When  soft  stars  were  brightly  uphanging 

the  night, 
Never  listened,  I  swear,  more  unques- 

tioningly, 


118 


LUCILE. 


Than  thy  fate  hath  compelled  thee  to 

listen  to  me  ! " 
To  the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  though  out 

of  a  dream, 
She  appeared  with  a  start  to  awaken. 

The  stream, 
When  he  ceased,  took  the  night  with  its 

moaning  again, 
Like  the  voices  of  spirits  departing  in 

pain. 
"  Continue,"  she  answered,  "  I  listen  to 

hear. " 
For  a  moment  he  did  not  reply. 

Through  the  drear 
And  dim  light  between  them,  she  saw 

that  his  face 

Was  disturbed.     To  and  fro  he  contin- 
ued to  pace, 
With  his  arms  folded  close,  and  the  low 

restless  stride 
Of  a  panther,  in  circles  around  her,  first 

wide, 
Then    narrower,    nearer,   and    ^nicker. 

At  last 
He  stood  still,  and  one  long  look  upon 

her  he  cast. 
' '  Lucile,  dost  thou  dare  to  look  into 

my  face  ? 
Is  the  sight   so  repugnant  ?  ha,   well ! 

Canst  thou  trace 
One  word  of  thy  writing  in  this  wicked 

scroll, 
With  thine  own  name  scrawled  through 

it,  defacing  a  soul  ? " 
In  his  face  there  was  something  so  wrath- 
ful and  wild, 
That  the  sight  of  it  scared  her. 

He  saw  it,  and  smiled, 
And  then  turned  him  from  her,  renewing 

again 
That  short,   restless  stride  ;   as  though 

searching  in  vain 
For  the  point  of  some  purpose  within 

him. 

"Lucile, 
You  shudder  to  look  in  my  face  :  do  you 

feel 
No  reproach  when  you  look  in  your  own 

heart  ? " 

"  No,  Duke, 
In  my  conscience  I  do  not  deserve  your 

rebuke  : 
Not  yours  !  "  she  replied. 

"No,"  he  muttered  again, 
"  Gentle  justice  !  you  first  bid  Life  hope 

not,  and  tln-n 
To  Despair  you  say  '  Act  not ! '  " 


He  watched  her  awhile 
With  a  chill  sort  of  restless  and  suffering 

smile. 
They  stood  by  the  wall  of  the  garden. 

The  skies, 
Dark,  sombre,  were  troubled  with  vague 

prophecies 
Of  the  dawn  yet  far  distant.     The  moon 

had  long  set, 
And  all  in  a  glimmering  light,  pale,  and 

wet 
With   the  night-dews,  the  white   roses 

sullenly  loomed 
Round  about  her.     She  spoke  not.     At 

length  he  resumed. 
"Wretched  creatures  we  are!     I   and 

thou,  —  one  and  all  ! 
Only  able  to  injure  each  other,  and  fall 
Soon  or  late,  in  that  void  which  our- 
selves we  prepare 
For  the  souls  that  we  boast  of !   weak 

insects  we  are  ! 
0   heaven !   and  what  has  become  of 

them  ?  all 
Those  instincts  of  Eden  surviving  the 

Fall: 

That  glorious  faith  in  inherited  things  : 
That  sense  in  the  soul  of  the  length  of 

her  wings  ; 
Gone  !    all  gone  !   and  the  wail  of  the 

night-wind  sounds  human, 
Bewailing  those  once  nightly  visitants  ! 

Woman, 
Woman,  what  hast  thou  done  with  my 

youth  ?     Give  again, 
Give  me  back  the  young  heart  that  I 

gave  thee  ...  in  vain  !  " 
"  Duke  !  "  she  faltered. 

"Yes,  yes  ! "  he  went  on,  "  I  was  not 
Always  thus  !  what  I  once  was,  I  have 

not  forgot." 

VI. 

As  the  wind  that  heaps  sand  in  a  desert, 

there  stirred 
Through  his  voice  an  emotion  that  swept 

every  word 
Into  one  angry  wail ;  as,  witli  feveri.-h 

change, 
He  continued  his  monologue,  fitful  and 

strange. 
"Woe  to  him,  in  whose  nature,  once 

kindled,  the  torch 
Of  Passion  burns  downward  to  blacken 

and  scorch  ! 


LUCILE. 


119 


But  •hame,  shame  and  sorrow,  0  woman, 

to  thee 
Whose  hand  sowed  the  seed  of  destruction 

in  me  ! 
Whose  lip  taught  the  lesson  of  falsehood 

to  mine  ! 
Whose  looks  made  me  doubt  lies  that 

looked  so  divine  ! 
My  soul  by  thy  beauty  was  slain  in  its 

sleep  : 
And  if  tears  I  mistrust,  't  is  that  thou 

too  canst  weep  ! 
Well  !  .  .  .  how  utter  soever  it  be,  one 

mistake 
In  the  love  of  a  man,  what  more  change 

need  it  make 
In  the  steps  of  his  soul  through  the  course 

love  began, 
Than  all  other  mistakes  in  the  life  of  a 

man  ? 
And  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  am  young  yet  : 

too  young 

To'  have  wholly  survived  my  own  por- 
tion among 

The  great  needs  of  man's  life,   or  ex- 
hausted its  joys  ; 
What  is  broken  ?   one   only  of  youth's 

pleasant  toys  ! 
Shall  I  be  the  less  welcome,  wherever  I 

g°. 

For  one  passion  survived  ?  No  !  the 
roses  will  blow 

As  of  yore,  as  of  yore  will  the  nightin- 
gales sing, 

Not  less  sweetly  for  one  blossom  can- 
celled from  Spring  ! 

Hast  thou  loved,  0  my  heart  ?  to  thy 
love  yet  remains 

All  the  wide  loving-kindness  of  nature. 
The  plains 

And  the  hills  with  each  summer  their 
verdure  renew. 

Wouldst  thou  be  as  they  are  ?  do  thou 
then  as  they  do, 

Let  the  dead  sleep  in  peace.  Would 
the  living  divine 

Where .  they  slumber  ?  Let  only  new 
flowers  be  the  sign  ! 

"  Vain  !  all  vain  !  .  .  .  For  when,  laugh- 
ing, the  wine  I  would  quaff, 

I  remembered  too  well  all  it  cost  me  to 
laugh. 

Through  the  revel  it  was  but  the  old 
song  I  heard, 

Through  the  crowd  the  old  footsteps 
behind  me  they  stirred, 


In  the  night-wind,   the  starlight,   the 

murmurs  of  even, 
In  the  ardors  of  earth,  and  the  languors 

of  heaven, 
I  could  trace  nothing  more,  nothing  more 

through  the  spheres, 
But  the   sound   of  old   sobs,    and  the 

tracks  of  old  tears  ! 

It  was  with  me  the  night  long  in  dream- 
ing or  waking, 
It  abided  in   loathing,   when  daylight 

was  breaking, 
The   burden  of  the   bitterness  in  me  ! 

Behold, 
All  my  days  were  become  as  a  tale  that 

is  told. 
And  I  said  to  my  sight,  '  No  good  thing 

shalt  thou  see, 
For  the  noonday  is  turned  to  darkness 

in  me. 
In  the  house  of  Oblivion  my  bed  I  have 

made.' 
And  I  said  to  the  grave,  '  Lo,  my  father ! ' 

and  said 
To  the  worm,    '  Lo,  my  sister ! '    The 

dust  to  the  dust, 
And  one  end  to  the  wicked  shall  be  with 

the  just ! " 


He  ceased,  as  a  wind  that  wails  out  on 

the  night, 
And  moans  itself  mute.     Through  the 

indistinct  light 
A  voice  clear,  and  tender,  and  pure  with 

a  tone 

Of  ineifable  pity  replied  to  his  own. 
"And  say  you,  and  deem  you,   that  I 

wrecked  your  life  ? 
Alas  !  Due  de  Luvois,  had  I  been  your 

wife 
By  a  fraud  of  the  heart  which  could 

yield  you  alone 
For  the  love  in  your  nature  a  lie  in  my 

own, 
Should  I  not,  in  deceiving,  have  injured 

you  worse  ? 
Yes,  I  then  should  have  merited  justly 

your  curse, 

For  I  then  should  have  wronged  you  !  " 
' '  Wronged  !  ah,  is  it  so  ? 
You  could  never  have  loved  me  ? " 

"Duke  !" 

"Never  ?  0  no  !  " 

(He  broke  into  a  fierce,  angry  laugh,  as 

he  «aid) 


120 


LUCILE. 


"  Yet,  lady,  you  knew  that  I  loved  you : 

you  led 
My  love  on  to  lay  to  its  heart,  hour  by 

hour, 
All  the  pale,  cruel,  beautiful,  passionless 

power 
Shut  up  in  that  cold  face  of  yours  !  was 

this  well  ? 
But  enough  !  not  on  you  would  I  vent 

the  wild  hell 
Which  has  grown  in  my  heart.     0  that 

man,  first  and  last 
He  tramples  in  triumph  my  life !  he  has 

cast 
His  shadow  'twixt  me  and  the  sun  .  .  . 

let  it  pass  ! 
My  hate  yet  may  find  him  ! " 

She  murmured,  "Alas! 
These  words,  at  least,  spare  me  the  pain 

of  reply. 
Enough,  Due  de  Luvois  !   farewell.     I 

shall  try 
To  forget  every  word  I    have  heard, 

every  sight 
That  has  grieved   and  appalled  me  in 

this  wretched  night 
Which  must  witness  our  final  farewell. 

May  you,  Duke, 
Never  know  greater  cause    your    own 

heart  to  rebuke 
Than  mine  thus  to  wrong  and  afflict  you 

have  had  ! 
Adieu  ! " 

"  Stay,  Lucile,  stay  ! "...  he  groaned, 

..."  I  am  mad, 
Brutalized,  blind  with  pain  !     I  know 

not  what  I  said. 
I   meant  it  not.      But"   (he   moaned, 

drooping  his  head) 
"  Forgive  me  !     I  —  have  I  so  wronged 

you,  Lucile  ? 

I ...  have  I ...  forgive  me,  forgive  me  !  " 

"I  feel 
Only  sad,  very  sad  to  the   soul,"  she 

said,  ' '  far, 
Far  too  sad  for  resentment." 

"  Yet  stand  as  you  are 
One  moment,"  he  murmured.    "  I  think, 

could  I  gaze 

Thus  awhile  on  your  face,  the  old  inno- 
cent days 
Would  come   back  upon  me,  and  this 

scorching  heart 
Free  itself  in  hot  tears.     Do  not,  do  not 

depart 
Thus,    Lucile  !    stay   one  moment.      I 

know  why  you  shrink, 


Why  you  shudder  ;  I  read  in  your  face 

what  you  think. 
Do  not  speak  to  me  of  it.     And  yd,  if 

you  will, 
Whatever  you  say,  my  own  lips  shall  be 

still. 
I  lied.    And  the  truth,  now,  could  justify 

naught. 
There  are  battles,  it  may  be,  in  which 

to  have  fought 
Is  more  shameful  than,  simply,  to  fail. 

Yet,  Lucile, 
Had  you  helped  me  to  bear  what  you 

forced  me  to  feel  — 

"Could  I   help  you,"   she   murmured, 

"but  what  can  I  say 
That  your  life  will  respond  to  ? "     "  My 

life  ? "  he  sighed.     "  Nay, 
My  life  hath  brought  forth  only  evil, 

and  there 
The   wild  wind   hath  planted  the  wild 

weed :  yet  ere 
You   exclaim,    '  Fling  the  weed  to  the 

flames,'  think  again 

Why  the  field  is  so  barren.     With  all 

other  men 
First  love,  though  it  perish  from   life, 

only  goes 
Like  the  primrose  that  falls  to  make  way 

for  the  rose. 
For  a  man,  at  least  most  men,  may  love 

on  through  life  : 
Love   in   fame  ;  love  in  knowledge  ;  in 

work  :  earth  is  rife 

With  laljpr,  and  therefore  with  love,  for 

a  man. 
If  one  love  fails,  another  succeeds,  and 

the  plan 
Of  man's  life  includes  love  in  all  objects  ! 

But  I? 
All  such  loves  from  my  life  through  its 

whole  destiny 
Fate  excluded.     The  love   that  I  gave 

you,  alas  ! 
Was  the  sole  love  that  life  gave  to  me. 

Let  that  pass  ! 
It  perished,  and   all   perished  with   it. 

Ambition  ? 
Wealth  left  nothing  to  add  to  my  social 

condition. 
Fame  ?     But  fame  in  itself  cresupposes 

some  great 
Fit-Id  wherein  to  pursue  and  attain  it. 

The  State  ? 
I,  to  cringe  to  an  upstart  ?     Tin-  <  'amji  ? 

I,  to  draw 


LUCILE. 


121 


From  its  sheath  the  old  sword  of  the 

Dukes  of  Luvois 
To   defend   usurpation  ?     Books,   then  ? 

Science,  Art  ? 
But,  alas  !  1  was  fashioned  for  action  : 

my  heart, 
Withered  thing  though  it  be,  I  should 

hardly  compress 
Twixt  the  leaves  of  a  treatise  on  Statics  : 

life's  stress 
Needs    scope,    not    contraction !    what 

rests  ?  to  wear  out 
At  some  dark  northern  court  an  existence, 

no  doubt, 
In  wretched  and  paltry  intrigues  for  a 

cause 
As  hopeless  as  is  my  own  life  !     By  the 

laws 

Of  a  fate  I  can  neither  control  nor  dis- 
pute, 
I  am  what  I  am  ! " 


VIII. 

For  a  while  she  was  mute. 
Then  she  answered,  "We  are  our  own 

fates.     Our  own  deeds 
Are  our  doomsmen.    Man's  life  was  made 

not  for  men's  creeds, 
But  men's  actions.    And,  Due  de  Luvois, 

I  might  say 
That  all  life  attests,  that  '  the  will  makes 

the  way.' 
Is  the  land  of  our  birth  less  the  land  of 

our  birth, 
Or  its  claim  the  less  strong,  or  its  cause 

the  less  worth 
Our  upholding,  because  the  white  lily 

no  more 
Is  as  sacred  as  all  that  it  bloomed  for  of 

yore  ? 

Yet  be  that  as  it  may  be  ;  I  cannot  per- 
chance 
Judge  this  matter.     I  am  but  a  woman, 

and  France 
Has  for  me  simpler  duties.     Large  hope, 

though,  Eugene 
De  Luvois,  should  be  yours.     There  is 

purpose  in  pain, 
Otherwise  it  were  devilish.     I  trust  in 

my  soul 
That  the  great  master  hand  which  sweeps 

over  the  whole 
Of  this  deep  harp  of  life,  if  at  moments 

it  stretch 
To  shrill  tension  some  one  wailing  nerve, 

means  to  fetch 


Its  response  the  truest,  most  stringent, 

and  smart, 
Its  pathos  the  purest,  from  out  the  wrung 

heart, 

Whose  faculties,  flaccid  it  may  be,  if  less 
Sharply  strung,    sharply    smitten,   had 

failed  to  express 
Just  the  one  note  the  great  final  harmony 

needs. 
And  what  best  proves  there 's  life  in  a 

heart  ?  —  that  it  bleeds  ! 
Grant  a  cause  to  remove,  grant  an  end 

to  attain, 
Grant  both  to  be  just,  and  what  mercy 

in  pain  ! 
Cease  the   sin   with  the   sorrow  !     See 

morning  begin  ! 
Pain  must  burn  itself  out  if  not  fuelled 

by  sin. 
There  is  hope  in  yon  hill-tops,  and  love 

in  yon  light. 
Let  hate  and  despondency  die  with  the 

night ! " 

He  was  moved  by  her  words.     As  some 

poor  wretch  confined 
In  cells  loud  with  meaningless  laughter, 

whose  mind 
Wanders  trackless  amidst  its  own  ruins, 

may  hear 
A  voice  heard  long  since,  silenced  many 

a  year, 
And  now,  'mid  mad  ravings  recaptured 

again, 
Singing  through  the  caged  lattice  a  once 

well-known  strain, 
Which  brings  back  his  boyhood  upon  it, 

until 

The  mind's  ruined  crevices  graciously  fill 
With   music  and   memory,   and,    as  it 

were, 
The  long-troubled  spirit  grows  slowly 

aware 
Of  the  mockery  round  it,  and  shrinks 

from  each  thing 
It  once  sought,  —  the   poor  idiot  who 

passed  for  a  king, 
Hard  by,  with  his  squalid  straw  crown, 

now  confessed 
A  madman  more  painfully  mad  than  the 

rest,  — 
So  the  sound  of  her  voice,  as  it  there 

wandered  o'er 

His  echoing  heart,  seemed  in  part  to  re- 
store 
The  forces  of  thought :   he  recaptured 

the  whole 


122 


LUCILE. 


Of  his  life  by  the  light  which,  in  passing, 
her  soul 

Reflected  on  his  :  he  appeared  to  awake 

From  a  dream,   and   perceived  he  had 
dreamed  a  mistake  : 

His  spirit  was  softened,  yet  troubled  in 
him  : 

He  felt  his  lips  falter,  his  eyesight  grow 
dim, 

But  he  murmured  .  .  . 

"  Lucile,  not  for  me  that  sun's  light 

Which  reveals  —  not  restores  —  the  wild 
havoc  of  night. 

There  are  some  creatures  born  for  the 
night,  not  the  day. 

Broken-hearted  the  nightingale  hides  in 
the  spray, 

And  the  owl's  moody  mind  in  his  own 
hollow  tower 

Dwells  muffled.     Be  darkness  hencefor- 
ward my  dower. 

Light,  be  sure,  in  that  darkness  there 
dwells,  by  which  eyes 

Grown  familiar  with  ruins  may  yet  rec- 
ognize 

Enough  desolation." 


"  The  pride  that  claims  here 
On  earth  to  itself  (howsoever  severe 
To  itself  it  may  be)  God's  dread  office 

and  right 
Of  punishing  sin,  is  a  sin  in  heaven's 

sight, 
And  against  heaven's  service. 

"Eugene  de  Luvois, 
Leave  the  judgment  to  Him  who  alone 

knows  tne  law. 
Surely  no  man  can  be  his  own  judge, 

least  of  all 
His  own  doomsman." 

Her  words  seemed  to  fall 
With  the  weight  of  tears  in  them. 

He  looked  up,  and  saw 
That  sad  serene  countenance,  mournful 

as  law 
And  tender  as  pity,  bowed  o'er  him  :  and 

heard 

In  some  thicket  the  matin al  chirp  of  a 
bird. 

x. 
"  Vulgar  natures  alone  suffer  vainly. 

"  Eugene," 
She  continued,   "in  life  we  have  met 

once  again, 

And  once  more  life  parts  UB.     Yon  day- 
spring  for  me 


Lifts  the  veil  of  a  future  in  which  it  may 

be 
We  shall  meet  nevermore.      Grant,   0 

grant  to  me  yet 
The  belief  that  it  is  not  in  vain  we  have 

iin-t  ! 

I  plead  for  the  future.    A  new  horoscope 
I  would  cast :  will  you  read  it  ?    I  plead 

for  a  hope  : 
I   plead  for  a  memory  ;   yours,   yours 

alone, 
To  restore  or  to  spare.     Let  the  hope  be 

your  own, 
Be  the  memory  mine. 

"  Once  of  yore,  when  for  man 
Faith  yet  lived,  ere  this  age  of  the  slug- 
gard began, 
Men,  aroused  to  the  knowledge  of  evil, 

fled  far 
From  the  fading  rose-gardens  of  sense, 

to  the  war 
With  the  Pagan,  the  cave  in  the  desert, 

and  sought 
Not  repose,  but  employment  in  action 

or  thought, 
Life's  strong  earnest,  in  all  things  !    0 

think  not  of  me, 
But  yourself !  for  I  plead  for  your  own 

destiny  : 

I  plead  for  your  life,  with  its  duties  un- 
done, 
With  its  claims  unappeased,   and    its 

trophies  unwon  ; 
And  in  pleading  for  life's  fair  fulfilment, 

I  plead 
For  all  that  you  miss,  and  for  all  that 

you  need." 

XI. 

Through  the  calm  crystal  air,  faint  and 

far,  as  she  spoke, 

A  clear,   chilly  chime  from  a  church- 
turret  broke  ; 
And  the  sound  of  her  voice,  with  the 

sound  of  the  bell, 
On  his  ear,   where  he  kneeled,   softly, 

soothingly  fell. 
All  within  him  was  wild  and  confused, 

as  within 
A   chamber  deserted  in  some  roadside 

inn, 
Where,  passing,  wild  travellers  paused, 

over-night, 
To  quaff  and  carouse  ;    in  each  socket 

each  light 
Is   extinct ;    crashed   the    glasses,    and 

•crawled  is  the  wall 


"  OUR   TWO   PATHS   MUST    PART   US,    EUGENE. 


LUCILE. 


123 


With  wild  ribald  ballads  :  serenely  o'er 

all, 
For  the  first  time  perceived,  where  the 

dawn-light  creeps  faint 
Through  the  wrecks  of  that  orgy,   the 

face  of  a  saint, 

Seen  through  some  broken  frame,   ap- 
pears noting  meanwhile 
The   ruin   all   round  with   a  sorrowful 

smile. 
And  he  gazed  round.     The  curtains  of 

Darkness  half  drawn 
Oped  behind  her  ;  and  pure  as  the  pure 

light  of  dawn, 
She    stood,    bathed    in    morning,    and 

seemed  to  his  eyes 
From  their  sight  to  be  melting  away  in 

the  skies 
That  expanded  around  her. 


There  passed  through  his  head 
A  fancy,  —  a  vision.     That  woman  was 

dead 
He  had  loved  long  ago,  —  loved  and  lost ! 

dead  to  him, 
Dead  to  all  the  life  left  him  ;  but  there, 

in  the  dim 
Dewy  light  of  the  dawn,  stood  a  spirit ; 

,  't  was  hers  ; 
And  he  said  to  the  soul  of  Lucile  de 

Nevers  : 

"  0  soul  to  its  sources  departing  away  ! 
Pray  for  mine,  if  one  soul  for  another 

may  pray. 
I  to  ask  have  no  right,  thou  to  give  hast 

no  power, 
One  hope  to   my  heart.     But  in  this 

parting  hour 
I  name  not  my  heart,  and  I  speak  not 

to  thine. 
Answer,  soul  of  Lucile,  to  this  dark  soul 

of  mine, 
Does  not  soul  owe  to  soul,  what  to  heart 

heart  denies, 
Hope,  when  hope  is  salvation  ?     Behold, 

in  yon  skies, 
This  wild  night  is  passing  away  while  I 

speak : 
Lo,  above  us,  the  day-spring  beginning 

to  break  ! 
Something    wakens    within    me,     and 

warms  to  the  beam. 
Is  it  hope  that  awakens  ?  or  do  I  but 

dream  ? 
I  know  not.     It  may  be,  perchance,  the 

first  spark 


Of  a  new  light  within  me  to  solace  the 

dark 
Unto  which  I  return  ;  or  perchance  it. 

may  be 
The  last  spark  of  fires  half  extinguished 

in  me. 
I  know  not.     Thou  goest  thy  way  :   I 

my  own : 

For  good  or  for  evil,  I  know  not.  .  Alone 
This  I  know  ;  we  are  parting.     I  wished 

to  say  more, 

But  no  matter  !   't  will  pass.     All  be- 
tween us  is  o'er. 
Forget  the  wild  words  of  to-night.  'T  was 

the  pain 
For  long  years  hoarded  up,  that  rushed 

from  me  again. 
I  was  unjust :  forgive  me.     Spare  now 

to  reprove 

Other  words,  other  deeds.     It  was  mad- 
ness, not  love, 
That  you  thwarted  this  night.     What 

is  done  is  now  done. 
Death  remains  to  avenge  it,  or  life  to 

atone. 
I  was  maddened,  delirious  !     I  saw  you 

return 
To  him  —  not  to  me  ;   and  I  felt  my 

heart  burn 
With  a  fierce  thirst  for  vengeance  —  and 

thus  ...  let  it  pass  ! 
Long  thoughts  these,  and  so  brief  the 

moments,  alas  ! 
Thou  goest  thy  way,  and   I   mine.     I 

suppose 
'T  is  to  meet  nevermore.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

Who  knows, 
Or  who   heeds,    where  the   exile   from 

Paradise  flies  ? 
Or  what  altars  of  his  in  the  desert  may 

rise  ? 
Is  it  not  so,  Lucile  ?    Well,  well !     Thus 

then  we  part 
Once  again,   soul  from  soul,  as   before 

heart  from  heart  ! " 


And  again,  clearer  far  than  the  chime  of 

the  bell, 
That  voice  on  his  sense  softly,  soothingly 

fell. 
"  Our  two  paths  must  part  us,  Eugene  ; 

for  my  own 
Seems  no  more  through  that  world  in 

which  henceforth  alone 
You  must  work  out  (as  now  I  believe 

that  you  will) 


124 


LUCILE. 


The  hope  which  you  speak  of.    That 

work  1  shall  still 
(If  I  live)  watch  and  welcome,  and  bless 

far  away. 
Doubt  not  this.     But  mistake  not  the 

thought,  if  I  say, 
That  the  great  moral  combat  between 

human  life 
And  each  human  soul  must  be  single. 

The  strife 
None  can  share,  though  by  all  its  results 

may  be  known. 
When  the  soul  arms  for  battle,  she  goes 

forth  alone. 

I  say  not,  indeed,  we  shall  meet  never- 
more, 
For  I  know  not.     But  meet,  as  we  have 

met  of  yore, 
1  know  that  we  cannot.     Perchance  we 

may  meet 
By  the   death-bed,   the   tomb,    in   the 

crowd,  in  the  street, 
Or  in  solitude  even,  but  never  again 
Shall  we  meet   from  henceforth  as  we 

hav«  met,  Eugene. 
For  we  know  not  the  way  we  are  going, 

nor  yet 
Where  our  two  ways  may  meet,  or  may 

cross.     Life  hath  set 
No  landmarks  before  us.     But  this,  this 

alone, 
I  will  promise  :  whatever  your  path,  or 

my  own, 
If,  for  once  in  the  conflict  before  you,  it 

chance 
That  the  Dragon  prevail,  and  with  cleft 

shield,  and  lance 
Lost  or  shattered,  borne  down  by  the 

stress  of  the  war, 

You  falter  and  hesitate,  if  from  afar 
I,  still  watching  (unknown  to  yourself, 

it  may  be) 
O'er  the  conflict  to  which  I  conjure  you, 

should  see 
That  my  presence  could  rescue,  support 

you,  or  guide, 
In  the  hour  of  that  need  I  shall  be  at 

your  side, 

To  warn,  if  you  will,  or  incite,  or  con- 
trol ; 
And  again,  once  again,  we  shall  meet, 

soul  to  soul !  " 


The  voice  ceased. 


XIV. 


He  uplifted  his  eyes. 

All  alone 


He   stood   on   the   bare  edge  of  dawn. 

She  was  gone, 
Like  a  star,  when  up  bay  after  bay  of 

the  night, 
Hippies  in,  wave  on   wave,    the  broad 

ocean  of  light. 

And  at  once,  in  her  place,  was  the  Sun- 
rise !     It  rose 
In  its  sumptuous  splendor  and  solemn 

repose, 
The  supreme  revelation  of  light    Domes 

of  gold, 
Realms  of  rose,   in   the  Orient !     And 

breathless,  and  bold, 
While  the  great  gates  of  heaven  rolled 

back  one  by  one, 
The  bright  herald  angel  stood  stern  in 

the  sun  ! 
Thrice  holy   Eospheros  !     Light's  reign 

began 
In   the  heaven,    on   the  earth,  in   thw 

heart  of  the  man. 
The  dawn  on  the  mountains  !  the  dawn 

everywhere  ! 
Light !   silence  !    the  fresh  innovations 

of  air ! 
0   earth,    and  0   ether !      A  butterfly 

breeze 
Floated  up,  fluttered  down,  and  poised 

blithe  on  the  trees. 
Through  the  revelling  woods,   o'er  the 

sharp-rippled  stream, 
Up  the  vale  slow  uncoiling  itself  out  of 

dream, 
Around  the  brown  meadows,  adown  the 

hill -slope, 
The  spirits  of  morning  were  whispering, 

"  Hope .'" 

XV. 
He  uplifted  his  eyes.    In  the  place  where 

she  stood 
But  a  moment  before,  and  where  now 

rolled  the  flood 
Of  the  sunrise  all  golden,  he  seemed  to 

behold, 
In  the  young  light  of  sunrise,  an  image 

unfold 
Of  his   own   youth,  —  its  ardors,  —  its 

promise  of  fame,  — 
Its  ancestral  ambition  ;  and  France  by 

the  name 
Of  his  sires  seemed  to  call  him.     There, 

hovered  in  light, 
That  image  aloft,  o'er  the  shapeless  and 

bright 
And  Aurorean  clouds,  which  themselves 

seemed  to  be 


LUCILE. 


125 


Brilliant  fragments  of  that  golden  world, 

wherein  he 
Had  once  dwelt,  a  native  ! 

There,  rooted  and  bound 
To  the  earth,  stood  the  man,  gazing  at 

it !    Around 
The  rims  of  the  sunrise  it  hovered  and 

shone 
Transcendent,  that  type  of  a  youth  that 

was  gone ; 
And  he,  —  as  the  body  may  yearn  for 

the  soul, 
So  he  yearned  to  embody  that  image. 

His  whole 
Heart  arose  to  regain  it. 

"  And  is  it  too  late  ? " 
No  !     For  time  is  a  fiction,  and  limits 

not  fate. 
Thought  alone  is  eternal.     Time  thralls 

it  in  vain. 
For  the  thought  that  springs  upward 

and  yearns  to  regain 
The  pure  source  of  spirit,  there  is  no 

Too  LATE. 
As  the   stream   to    its   first    mountain 

levels,  elate 

In  the  fountain  arises,  the  spirit  in  him 
Arose  to  that  image.     The  image  waned 

dim 
Into  heaven ;  and  heavenward  with  it, 

to  melt 
As  it  melted,  in  day's  broad  expansion, 

he  felt 
With  a  thrill,  sweet  and  strange,  and 

intense,  —  awed,  amazed, — 
Something  soar  and  ascend  in  his  soul, 

as  he  gazed. 


CANTO  VI. 


MAN  is  born  on  a  battle-field.     Round 

him,  to  rend 
Or  resist,  the  dread  Powers  he  displaces 

attend, 
By  the  cradle  which  Nature,  amidst  the 

stern  shocks 
That  have  shattered  creation,  and  shapen 

it,  rocks. 

He  leaps  with  a  wail  into  being ;  and  lo  ! 
His  own  mother,  fierce  Nature  herself, 

is  his  foe. 
Her  whirlwinds  are  roused  into  wrath 

o'er  his  head  : 


'Neath  his  feet  roll  her  earthquakes  :  her 
solitudes  spread 

To   daunt  him  :  her  forces  dispute  his 
command  : 

Her  snows  fall  to  freeze  him  :  her  suns 
burn  to  brand  : 

Her  seas  yawn  to  engulf  him  :  her  rocks 
rise  to  crush  : 

And  the  lion  and  leopard,  allied,  lurk  to 
rush  , 

On  their  startled  invader. 

In  lone  Malabar, 

Where  the  infinite  forest  spreads  breath- 
less and  far, 

'Mid  the  cruel  of  eye  and  the  stealthy 
of  claw 

(Striped  and   spotted    destroyers !)    he 
sees,  pale  with  awe, 

On  the  menacing  edge  of  a  fiery  sky 

Grim    Doorga,    blue-limbed    and    red- 
handed,  go  by, 

And   the   first   thing    he    worships    is 
Terror. 

Anon, 

Still  impelled  by  necessity  hungrily  on, 

He  conquers  the  realms  of  his  own  self- 
reliance, 

And  the  last  cry  of  fear  wakes  the  first 
of  defiance. 

From  the  serpent  he  crushes  its  poison- 
ous soul.: 

Smitten  down  in  his  path  see  the  dead 
lion  roll ! 

On  toward  Heaven  the  son  of  Alcmena 
strides  high  on 

The  heads  of  the  Hydra,  the  spoils  of  the 
lion  : 

And  man,   conquering  Terror,   is  wor- 
shipped by  man. 

A  camp  has  this  world  been  since  first 

it  began  ! 

From  his  tents  sweeps  the  roving  Ara- 
bian ;  at  peace, 
A  mere  wandering  shepherd  that  follows 

the  fleece ; 
But,  warring  his  way  through  a  world's 

destinies, 
Lo,    from   Delhi,    from   Bagdadt,    from 

Cordova,  rise 
Domes  of  empiry,  dowered  with  science 

and  art, 
Schools,    libraries,    forums,   the  palace, 

the  mart  ! 

New  realms   to  man's  soul  have   bean 
conquered.     But  those, 


126 


LUCILE. 


Forthwith  they  are  peopled  for  man  by 

new  I'm'.- ' 
The  stars  keep  their  secrets,  the  earth 

hides  her  own, 
And  bold  must  the  man  be  that  braves 

the  Unknown  ! 
Not  a  truth  has  to  art  or  to  science  been 

given, 
Hut  brows  have  ached  for  it,  and  souls 

toiled  and  striven ; 
And  many  have  striven,  and  many  have 

failed, 
And  many  died,  slain  by  the  truth  they 

assailed. 
But   when   Man   hath    tamed    Nature, 

asserted  his  place 
And  dominion,   behold  !  he  is  brought 

face  to  face 
With  a  new  foe,  —  himself  ! 

Nor  may  man  on  his  shield 
Ever  rest,  for  his  foe  is  forever  afield, 
Danger  ever  at  hand,   till   the   armed 

Archangel 
Sound  o'er  him   the   trump  of  earth's 

final  evangel. 

II. 

Silence   straightway,    stem    Muse,   the 

soft  cymbals  of  pleasure, 
Be  all  bronzen  these  numbers,  and  mar- 
tial the  measure  ! 
Breathe,    sonorously   breathe,   o'er    the 

spirit  in  me 
One  strain,  sad  and  stern,  of  that  deep 

Epopee 
Which  thou,  from  the  fashionless  cloud 

of  far  time, 
Chantest   lonely,    when   Victory,    pale, 

and  sublime 
In   the   light   of  the  aureole  over  her 

head, 
Hears,  and  heeds  not  the  wound  in  her 

heart  fresh  and  red. 
Blown  wide  by  the  blare  of  the  clarion, 

unfold 
The  shrill  clanging  curtains  of  war  ! 

And  behold 
A  vision  ! 

The  antique  Heraclean  seats  ; 
And   the   long  Black   Sea  billow   that 

once  bore  those  fleets, 
Which  said  to  the  winds,  "Be  ye,  too, 

Genoese  ! " 
And  the  red  angry  sands  of  the  chafed 

Chersonese  ; 
And  the  two   foes   of   man,    War  and 

Winter,  allied 


Round    the    Armies    of    England    and 

France,  side  by  side 
Enduring  and  dying  (Gaul  and  Briton 

abreast !) 
Where  the  towers  of  tha  North  fret  the 

skies  of  the  East. 


Since  that  sunrise,  which  rose  through 

the  calm  linden  stems 
O'er  Lucile  and  Eugene,  in  the  ganlt-n 

at  Ems, 
Through  twenty-five  seasons  encircling 

the  sun, 
This  planet  of  ours  on  its  pathway  hath 

gone, 
And  the  fates  that  I  sing  of  have  flowed 

with  the  fates 
Of  a  world,  in  the  red  wake  of  war, 

round  the  gates 
Of  that  doomed  and  heroical  city,   in 

which 

(Fire  crowning  the  rampart,  blood  bath- 
ing the  ditch  !) 
At    bay,    fights   the    Russian   as   some 

hunted  bear, 
Whom    the    huntsmen    have    hemmed 

round  at  last  in  his  lair. 

IV. 

A  fanged,  arid  plain,  sapped  with  under- 
ground fire, 

Soaked  with  snow,  torn  with  shot, 
mashed  to  one  gory  mire  ! 

There  Fate's  iron  scale  hangs  in  horrid 
suspense, 

While  those  two  famished  ogres,  —  the 
Siege,  the  Defence, 

Face  to  face,  through  a  vapor  frore,  dis- 
mal, and  dun, 

Glare,  scenting  the  breath  of  each  other. 

The  one 

Double-bodied,  two-headed,  —  by  sepa- 
rate ways 

Winding,  serpent-wise,  nearer ;  the  other, 
each  day's 

Sullen  toil  adding  size  to,  —  concentrat- 
ed, solid, 

Indefatigable,  —  the  brass-fronted,  em- 
bodied, 

And  audible  auros  gone  sombrely  forth 

To  the  world  from  that  Autocrat  Will 
of  the  north  ! 

v. 

In  the  dawn  of  a  moody  October,  a 
pale 


LUCILE. 


127 


Ghostly  motionless  vapor  began  to  pre- 
vail 

Over  city  and  camp  ;  like  the  garment 
of  death 

Which  (is  formed  by)  the  face  it  conceals. 
'T  was  the  breath 

War,  yet  drowsily  yawning,  began  to 
suspire  ; 

Wherethrough,  here  and  there,  flashed 
an  eye  of  red  fire, 

And  closed,  from  some  rampart  begin- 
ning to  bellow 

Hoarse  challenge ;  replied  to  anon, 
through  the  yellow 

And  sulphurous  twilight  :  till  day  reeled 
and  rocked, 

And  roared  into  dark.  Then  the  mid- 
night was  mocked 

With  fierce  apparitions.  Ringed  round 
by  a  rain 

Of  red  fire,  and  of  iron,  the  murtherous 
plain 

Flared  with  fitful  combustion ;  where 
fitfully  fell 

Afar  off  the  fatal,  disgorged  scharpenelle, 

And  fired  the  horizon,  and  singed  the 
coiled  gloom 

With  wings  of  swift  flame  round  that 
City  of  Doom. 


So   the    day  —  so   the    night  !      So    by 

night,  so  by  day, 
With  stern  patient  pathos,  while  time 

wears  away, 
In  the  trench  flooded  through,  in  the 

wind  where  it  wails, 
In  the  snow  where  it  falls,  in  the  fire 

where  it  hails 
Shot  and  shell  —  link  by  link,  out  of 

hardship  and  pain, 
Toil,  sickness,  endurance,  is  forged  the 

bronze  chain 
Of  those  terrible  siege-lines  ! 

No  change  to  that  toil 
Save  the  mine's  sudden  leap  from  the 

treacherous  soil, 
Save    the    midnight    attack,    save    the 

groans  of  the  maimed, 
And  Death's  daily  obolus  due,  whether 

claimed 
By  man  or  by  nature. 


Time  passes.     The  dumb, 
Bitter,  snow-bound,  and  sullen  Novem- 
ber is  come, 


And  its  snows  have  been  bathed  in  the 

blood  of  the  brave  : 
And  many  a  young  heart  has  glutted  the 

grave  : 
And  on  Inkerman  yet  the  wild  bramble 

is  gory, 
And  those  bleak  heights  henceforth  shall 

be  famous  in  story. 


The  moon,  swathed  in  storm,  has  long 

set  :  thnnigh  the  camp 
No  sound  save  the  sentinel's  slow  sullen 

tramp, 
The  distant  explosion,  the  wild  sleety 

wind, 
That  seems  searching  for  something  it 

never  can  find. 
The  midnight  is  turning :  the  lamp  is 

nigh  spent  : 
And,   wounded  and  lone,  in  a  desolate 

tent 
Lies    a    young    British    soldier    whose 

sword  .  .  . 

In  this  place, 

However,  my  Muse  is  compelled  to  re- 
trace 
Her  precipitous  steps  and  revert  to  the 

past. 

The  shock  which   had   suddenly  shat- 
tered at  last 
Alfred    Vargrave's    fantastical    holiday 

nature, 
Had  sharply  drawn  forth  to  his  full  size 

and  stature 
The  real  man,  concealed  till  that  mo- 

ment  beneath 
All   he   yet  had   appeared.     From   the 

gay  broidered  sheath 
Which  a  man  in  his  wrath  flings  aside, 

even  so 

Leaps    the   keen  trenchant  steel  sum- 
moned forth  by  a  blow. 
And  thus  loss  of  fortune  gave  value  to 

life. 
The  wife  gained  a  husband,  the  husband 

a  wife, 
In  that  home  which,  though  humbled 

and  narrowed  by  fate, 
Was  enlarged  and   ennobled  by  love. 

Low  their  state, 
But  large  their  possessions. 

Sir  Ridley,  forgiven 
By  those  he  unwittingly  brought  nearer 

heaven 
By  one  fraudulent  act,  than  through  all 

his  sleek  speech 


128 


LUCILE. 


The  hypocrite   brought  his  own   soul, 
safe  from  reach 

Of  the  law,  died  abroad. 

Cousin  John,  heart  and  hand, 

Purse  and  person,   henceforth   (honest 
man  !)  took  his  Stand 

By   Matilda   and   Alfred ;   guest,  guar- 
dian, and  friend 

Of  the  home  he  both  shared  and  assured, 
to  tin1  end, 

With  his  large  lively  love.     Alfred  Var- 
grave  meanwhile 

Faced  the  world's  frown,   consoled  by 
his  wife's  faithful  smile. 

Late  in  life  he  began  life  in  earnest ; 
and  still, 

With  the  tranquil  exertion  of  resolute  will, 

Through  long,  and  laborious,  and  diffi- 
cult days, 

Out  of  manifold  failure,  by  wearisome 
ways, 

Worked  his  way  through  the  world  ;  till 
at  last  he  began 

(Reconciled  to  the  work  which  mankind 
claims  from  man), 

After  years  of  unwitnessed,   unwearied 
endeavor, 

Years  impassioned  yet  patient,  to  realize 
ever 

More  clear  on  the  broad  stream  of  cur- 
rent opinion 

The  reflex  of  powers  in  himself,  —  that 
dominion 

Which  the  life  of  one  man,  if  his  life  be 
a  truth, 

May  assert  o'er  the  life   of  mankind. 
Thus,  his  youth 

In  his  manhood  renewed,  fame  and  for- 
tune he  won 

Working  only  for  home,  love,  and  duty. 

One  son 

Matilda  had  borne  him  ;  but  scarce  had 
the  boy, 

With  all  Eton  yet  fresh  in  his  full  heart's 
frank  joy, 

The  darling  of  young  soldier  comrades, 
just  glanced 

Down   the  glad   dawn   of  manhood  at 
life,  when  it  chanced 

That   a  blight   sharp  and   sudden   was 
breathed  o'er  the  bloom 

Of  his  joyous  and  generous  years,  and 
the  gloom 

Of  a  grief  premature  on  their  fair  prom- 
ise fell  : 

No  light   cloud   like  those  which,   for 
June  to  dispel, 


Captious  April  engenders;  but  derp  ;n 

his  own 
Deep   nature.     Meanwhile,   ere   I  fully 

make  known 

The  cause  of  this  sorrow,  I  track  tin- 
event. 
When   first    a   wild  war-note  through 

England  was  scut, 
He,   transferring  without   either  token 

or  word, 

To  friend,  parent,  or  comrade,  a  yet  vir- 
gin sword, 
From  a  holiday  troop,  to  one  bound  for 

the  war, 
Had  marched  forth,  with  eyes  that  saw 

death  in  the  star 
Whence   others   sought   glory.      Thus, 

fighting,  he  fell 
On  the  red  field  of  Inkerman  ;  found, 

who  can  tell 
By  what    miracle,    breathing,    though 

shattered,  and  borne 
To  the  rear  by  his  comrades,  pierced, 

bleeding,  and  torn. 
Where  for  long  days  and  nights,  with 

the  wound  in  his  side, 
He  lay,  dark. 

IX. 

But  a  wound  deeper  far,  undescried, 
In  the  young  heart  was  rankling ;  for 

there,  of  a  truth, 

In  the  first  earnest  faith  of  a  pure  pen- 
sive youth, 
A  love  large  as  life,  deep  and  changeless 

as  death, 
Lay  ensheathed :    and  that  love,   ever 

fretting  its  sheath, 
The  frail  scabbard  of  life  pierced  and 

wore  through  and  through. 
There  are  loves  in  man's  life  for  which 

time  can  renew 
All  that  time  may  destroy.     Lives  tli£re 

are,  though,  in  love, 
Wliich  cling  to  one  faith,  and  die  with 

it ;  nor  move, 
Though   earthquakes   may  shatter  the 

shrine. 

Whence  or  how 
Love  laid  claim  to  this  young  life,  it 

matters  not  now. 


0,  is  it  a  phantom  ?  a  dream  of  the  night  ? 
A  vision  which  fever  hath  fashioned  to 
sight? 


"BUT   A   WOUND   DEEPER    FAR,   UNDESCRIED."  —  Page  Ii8. 


LUCILE. 


129 


The  wind  wailing  ever,  with  motion  un- 
certain, 

Sways  sighingly  there  the  drenched  tent's 
tattered  curtain, 

To  and  fro,  up  and  down. 

But  it  is  not  the  wind 

That  is  lifting  it  now  :  and  it  is  not  the 
mind 

That  hath  moulded  that  vision. 

A  pale  woman  enters, 

As  wan  as   the   lamp's   waning   light, 
which  concentres 

Its   dull  glare  upon  her.      With  eyes 
dim  and  dimmer 

There,  all  in  a  slumberous  and  shadowy 
glimmer, 

The  sufferer  sees  that  still  form  floating  on, 

And  feels  faintly  aware  that  he  is  not 
alone. 

She  is  flitting  before  him.     She  pauses. 
She  stands 

By  his  bedside,  all  silent.     She  lays  her 
white  hands 

On  the  brow  of  the  boy.     A  light  finger 
is  pressing 

Softly,  softly  the  sore  wounds  :  the  hot 
blood-stained  dressing 

Slips  from  them.     A  comforting  quie- 
tude steals 

Through  the  racked  weary  frame  :  and, 
throughout  it,  he  feels 

The  slow  sense  of  a  merciful,  mild  neigh- 
borhood. 

Something  smooths  the  tossed  pillow. 
Beneath  a  gray  hood 

Of  rough  serge,  two  intense  tender  eyes 
are  bent  o'er  him, 

And  thrill  through  and  through  him. 
The  sweet  form  before  him, 

It  is  surely  Death's  angel  Life's  last  vigil 
keeping  ! 

A  soft  voice  says  ..."  Sleep  !  " 

And  he  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 

.          xi. 
He  waked  before  dawn.     Still  the  vision 

is  there  : 
Still  that  pale  woman  moves  not.     A 

ministering  care 
Meanwhile  has   been  silently  changing 

and  cheering 
The  aspect  of  all  things  around  him. 

Revering 
Some  power  unknown  and  benignant, 

he  blessed 

In  silence  the  sense  of  salvation.     And 
rest  I 

9 


Having    loosened    the    mind's    tangled 

meshes,  he  faintly 
Sighed  ..."  Say  what  thou  art,  blessed 

dream  of  a  saintly 
And  ministering  spirit  !  " 

A  whisper  serene 
Slid,  softer  than  silence  ..."  The  Sceur 

Seraphine, 

A  poor  Sister  of  Charity.     Shun  to  in- 
quire 
Aught  further,  young  soldier.     The  son 

of  thy  sire, 
For  the  sake  of  that  sire,  I  reclaim  from 

the  grave. 
Thou  didst  not  shun  death  :   shun  not 

life.     'T  is  more  brave 
To  live,  than  to  die.     Sleep  !  " 

He  sleeps  :  he  is  sleeping. 

XII. 

He  wakened  again,  when  the  dawn  was 

just  steeping 
The   skies   with   chill    splendor.      And 

there,  never  flitting, 
Never  flitting,  that  vision  of  mercy  was 

sitting. 
As  the  dawn  to  the  darkness,  so  life 

seemed  returning 

Slowly,  feebly  within  him.     The  night- 
lamp,  yet  burning, 

Made  ghastly  the  glimmering  daybreak. 

He  said, 

"If  thou  be  of  the  living,  and  not  of 

the  dead, 
Sweet  minister,  pour  out  yet  further  the 

healing 

Of  that  balmy  voice  ;  if  it  may  be,  re- 
vealing 

Thy  mission  of  mercy !  whence  art  thou  ? " 

"  0  son 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred,  it  matters  not ! 

One 
Who  is  not  of  the  living  nor  yet  of  the 

dead  : 
To  thee,  and  to  others,  alive  yet "... 

she  said  .  .  . 
"So  long  as  there  liveth  the  poor  gift 

in  me 
Of  this  ministration ;  to  them,  and  to 

thee, 
Dead  in  all  things  beside.     A  French 

Nun,  whose  vocation 
Is  now  by  this  bedside.     A  nun  hath  no 

nation. 
Wherever  man  suffers,  or  woman  may 

soothe, 
There  her  land  !  there  her  kindred  ! " 


130 


LUCILE. 


She  bent  down  to  smooth 
The  hot  pillow  ;  and  added  ..."  Yet 

more  than  another 
Is  thy  life  dear  to  me.     For  thy  father, 

thy  mother, 
1  knew  them,  —  I  know  them." 

"0  can  it  be  ?  you  ! 
My  dearest   dear  father !    my  mother  ! 

you  knew, 
You  know  them  ?  " 

She  bowed,  half  averting,  her  head 
In  silence. 

He  brokenly,  timidly  said, 
"  Do  they  know  I  am  thus  ?" 

"  Hush  !  "  .  .  .  she  smiled,  as  she  drew 
From  her  bosom  two  letters  :  and  —  can 

it  be  true  ? 
That  beloved  and  familiar  writing  ! 

He  burst 
Into  tears  ..."  My  poor  mother  —  my 

father  !  the  worst 
Will  have  reached  them  ! " 

"No,   no!"    she    exclaimed    with    a 

smile, 
"  They  know  you  are  living  ;  they  know 

that  meanwhile 

I  am  watching  beside  you.     Young  sol- 
dier, weep  not ! " 
But  still  on  the  nun's  nursing  bosom, 

the  hot 
Fevered  brow  of  the  boy  weeping  wildly 

is  pressed. 

There,  at  last,  the  young  heart  sobs  it- 
self into  rest : 

And  he  hears,  as  it  were  between  smil- 
ing and  weeping, 
The  calm  voice  say  ..."  Sleep  ! " 

And  he  sleeps,  he  is  sleeping. 

XIII. 
And  day  followed  day.     And,  as  wave 

follows  wave, 
With  the  tide,  day  by  day,  life,  reissuing, 

drave 
Through  that  young  hardy  frame  novel 

currents  of  health. 
Yet  some   strange    obstruction,    which 

life's  self  by  stealth 
Seemed  to  cherish,   impeded  life's  pro- 
gress.    And  still 
A  feebleness,  less  of  the  frame  than  the 

will, 
Clung  about   the   sick   man  :   hid  and 

harbored  within 
The  sad  hollow  eyes  :  pinched  the  cheek 

pale  and  thin  : 
And  clothed  the  wan  fingers  with  languor. 


And  thorp, 

Day  by  day,  night  by  night,  unremit- 
ting in  care, 
Unwearied  in  watching,  so  cheerful  of 

mien, 

And  so  gentle  of  hand,  sat  the  Soeur 
Seraphine  ! 

XIV. 

A  strange  woman  truly  !    not  young ; 

yet  her  face, 
Wan  and' worn  as  it  was,  bore  about  it 

the  trace 
Of  a  beauty  which  time  could  not  ruin. 

For  the  whole 
Quiet  cheek,   youth's  lost    bloom   left 

transpsirent,  the  soul 
Seemed  to  fill  with  its  own  light,  like 

some  sunny  fountain 
Everlastingly  fed  from   far  off  in   the 

mountain 
That  pours,   in  a  garden   deserted,   its 

streams, 
And  all .  the  more  lovely  for  loneliness 

seems. 
So  that,  watching  that  face,  you  would 

scarce  pause  to  guess 
The  years  which  its  calm  careworn  lines 

might  express, 
Feeling  only  what  suffering  with  these 

must  have  past 

To  have  perfected  there  so  much  sweet- 
ness at  last. 

xv. 

Thus,  one  bronzen  evening,  when  day 

had  put  out 
His  brief  thrifty  fires,  and  the  wind  was 

about, 
The  nun,  watchful  still  by  the  boy,  on 

his  own 
Laid  a  firm  quiet  hand,  and  the  deep 

tender  tone 
Of  her  voice,  moved  the  silence. 

She  said  ..."  Uhave  healed 
These  wounds  of  the  body.     Why  hast 

thou  concealed, 
Young  soldier,  that  yet  open  wound  in 

the  heart  ? 
Wilt  thou  trust  no  hand  near  it  ? " 

He  winced,  with  a  start, 
As  of  one  that  is  suddenly  touched  on 

the  spot 

From  which  every  nerve  derives  suffering. 

••  What! 

Lies    my  heart,   then,    so    bare 't '    he 

moaned  bitterly. 


LUCILE. 


131 


"Nay," 
With  compassionate  accents  she  hastened 

to  say, 
"Do  you  think  that  these  eyes  are  with 

sorrow,  young  man, 
So  all  unfamiliar,  indeed,  as  to  scan 
Her  features,  yet  know  them  not  ? 

"  0,  was  it  spoken, 
'  Go  ye  forth,  heal  tlie  sick,  lift  the  low, 

bind  the  broken  !  ' 
Of  the  body  alone  ?      Is  our   mission, 

then,  done, 
When  we  leave  the  bruised  hearts,  if  we 

bind  the  bruised  bone  ? 
Nay,  is  not  the  mission  of  mercy  two- 
fold ? 
Whence   twofold,    perchance,    are    the 

powers,  that  we  hold 
To  fulfil  it,   of  Heaven  !     For  Heaven 

doth  still 
To  us,  Sisters,  it  may  be,  who  seek  it, 

send  skill 

Won  from  long  intercourse  with  afflic- 
tion, and  art 
Helped   of    Heaven,   to    bind    up    the 

broken  of  heart. 
Trust  to  me  ! "     (His  two  feeble  hands 

in  her  own 
She  drew  gently.)  "  Trust  to  me  !  "  (she 

said,  with  soft  tone) : 
"I  am  not  so  dead  in  remembrance  to 

all 
I  have  died  to  in  this  world,  but  what  I 

recall 
Enough   of  its  sorrow,    enough   of   its 

trial, 
To  grieve  for  both,  —  save   from   both 

haply  !     The  dial 
Receives  many  shades,  and  each  points 

to  the  sun. 
The  shadows  are  many,  the  sunlight  is 

one. 
Life's  sorrows  still  fluctuate  :  God's  love 

does  not. 
And   His  love   is  unchanged,   when  it 

changes  our  lot. 

] Booking  up  to  this  light,  which  is  com- 
mon to  all, 
And  down  to  these  shadows,   on  each 

side,  that  fall 

In  time's  silent  circle,  so  various  for  each, 
Is  it  nothing  to  know  that  they  never 

can  reach 
So  far,  but  what  light  lies  beyond  them 

forever  ? 
Trust  to  me  !    0,  if  in  this  hour  I  en 

deavor 


To  trace  the  shade  creeping  across  the 

young  life 
Which,  in  prayer  till  this  hour,  I  have 

watched  through  its  strife 
With  the  shadow  of  death,  't  is  with 

this  faith  alone, 
That,  in  tracing  the  shade,  I  shall  find 

out  the  sun. 
Trust  to  me  ! " 

She  paused  :  he  was  weeping.     Small 

need 

Of  added  appeal,  or  entreaty,  indeed, 
Had  those  gentle  accents  to  win  from 

his  pale 
And  parched,  trembling  lips,  as  it  rose, 

the  brief  tale 
Of  a  life's  early  sorrow.     The  story  is 

old, 
And    in    words    few  as   may  be    shall 

straightway  be  told. 


A  few  years  ago,   ere  the  fair  form  of 

Peace 
Was  driven  from  Europe,  a  young  girl 

—  the  niece 

Of  a  French  noble,  leaving  an  old  Nor- 
man pile 
By  the  wild  northern  seas,  came  to  dwell 

for  a  while 
With  a  lady  allied  to  her  race,  —  an  old 

dame 
Of  a  threefold  legitimate   virtue,    and 

name, 
In  the  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

Upon  that  fair  child, 
From  childhood,  nor  father  nor  mother 

had  smiled. 
One  uncle  their  place  in  her  life  had 

supplied, 
And  their  place  in  her  heart :  she  had 

grown  at  his  side, 

And  under  his  roof-tree,  and  in  his  re- 
gard, 
From  childhood  to  girlhood. 

This  fair  orphan  ward 
Seemed  the  sole  human   creature  that 

lived  in  the  heart 
Of  that  stern  rigid  man,  or  whose  smile 

could  impart 
One  ray  of  response  to  the  eyes  which, 

above 
Her  fair  infant  forehead,  looked  down 

with  a  love 
That  seemed  almost  stern,   so  intense 

was  its  chill 


132 


LUCILE. 


Lofty  stillness,  like  sunlight  on  some 

lonely  hill 
Which  is  colder  and  stiller  than  sunlight 

elsewhere. 

Grass  grew  in  the  court-yard  ;  the  cham- 
bers were  bare 

In  that  ancient  mansion  ;  when  first  the 
stern  tread 

Of  its  owner  awakened  their  echoes  long 
dead : 

Bringing  with  him  this  infant  (the  child 
of  a  brother), 

Whom,  dying,  the  hands  of  a  desolate 
mother 

Had  placed  on  his  bosom.     'T  was  said 
—  right  or  wrong  — 

That,  in  the  lone  mansion,  left  tenant- 
less  long, 

To  which,  as  a  stranger,  its  lord  now 
returned, 

In  years  yet  recalled,  through  loud  mid- 
nights had  burned 

The  light  of  wild  orgies.     Be  that  false 
or  true, 

Slow  and   sad  was  the  footstep  which 
now  wandered  through 

Those  desolate  chambers  ;  and  calm  and 
severe 

Was  the  life  of  their  inmate. 

Men  now  saw  appear 

Every  morn  at  the  mass  that  h'rm  sor- 
rowful face, 

Which  seemed  to  lock  up  in  a  cold  iron 
case 

Tears  hardened  to  crystal.     Yet  harsh 
if  he  were, 

His  severity  seemed  to  be  trebly  severe 

In  the  rule  of  his  own  rigid  life,  which, 
at  least, 

Was  benignant  to  others.      The   poor 
parish  priest, 

Who   lived   on   his   largess,    his   piety 
praised. 

The  peasant  was  fed,  and  the  chapel  was 
raised, 

And  the  cottage  was  built,  by  his  liberal 
hand. 

Yet  he  seemed  in  the  midst  of  his  good 
deeds  to  stand 

A  lone,  and  unloved,  and  unlovable  man. 

There  ap|>eared  some  inscrutable  flaw  in 
the  plan 

Of  his  life,  that  love  failed  to  pass  over. 
That  child 

Alone  did  not  fear  him,  nor  shrink  from 
him ;  smiled 


To  his  frown,  and  dispelled  it. 

The  sweet  sportive  elf 
Seemed  the  type  of  some  joy  lost,  and 

missed,  in  himself. 
Ever  welcome  he  suffered  her  glad  face 

to  glide 
In  on  hours  when  to  others  his  door  was 

denied : 
And  many  a  time  with  a  mute  moody 

look 
He  would  watch  her  at  prattle  and  play, 

like  a  brook 
Whose  babble  disturbs  not  the  quietest 

spot, 
But  soothes  us  because  we  need  answer 

it  not. 

But  few  years  had  passed  o'er  that  child- 
hood before 

A  change  came  among  them.     A  letter, 
which  bore 

Sudden  consequence  with  it,  one  morn- 
ing was  placed 

In  the  hands  of  the  lord  of  the  chateau. 
He  paced 

To  and  fro  in  his  chamber  a  whole  night 
alone 

After  reading  that  letter.     At  dawn  he 
was  gone. 

Weeks  passed.     When   he  came   back 
again  he  returned 

With  a  tall  ancient  dame,  from  whose 
lips  the  child  learned 

That  they  were  of  the  same  race  and 
name.     With  a  face 

Sad  and  anxious,  to  this  withered  stock 
of  the  race 

He  confided  the  orphan,  and  left  them 
alone 

In  the  old  lonely  house. 

In  a  few  days  't  was  known, 

To  the  angry  surprise  of  half  Paris,  that 
one 

Of  the  chiefs  of  that  party  which,  still 
clinging  on 

To  the  banner  that  bears  the  white  lilies 
of  France, 

Will  fight  'neath  no  other,  nor  yet  for 
the  chance 

Of  restoring  their  own,  had  renounced 
the  watchword 

And  the  creed  of  his  youth  in  unsheath- 
ing his  sword 

For  a  Fatherland  fathered  no  more  (such 
is  fate  !) 

By  legitimate  parents. 

Aud  meanwhile,  elate 


CONSTANCE. 


LUCILE. 


133 


And  in  no  wise  disturbed  by  what  Paris 

might  say, 
The  new  soldier  thus  wrote  to  a  friend 

far  away  :  — 
"  To  the  life  of  inaction  farewell !     After 

all, 
Creeds   the   oldest    may  crumble,   and 

dynasties  fall, 

But  the  sole  grand  Legitimacy  will  en- 
dure, 
In   whatever    makes   death   noble,    life 

strong  and  pure. 
Freedom  !    action !   .  .  .   the  desert  to 

breathe  in,  —  the  lance 
Of  the  Arab  to  follow  !     I  go  !     Vive  la 

France  !  " 

Few  and  rare  were  the  meetings  hence- 
forth, as  years  fled, 

Twixt  the  child  and  the  soldier.     The 
two  women  led 

Lone  lives  in  the  lone  house.     Mean- 
while the  child  grew 

Into  girlhood ;    and,    like   a  sunbeam, 
sliding  through 

Her  green  quiet  years,  changed  by  gen- 
tle degrees 

To  the  loveliest  vision  of  youth  a  youth 
sees 

In  his  loveliest  fancies  :  as  pure  as  a 
pearl, 

And  as  perfect :   a  noble  and  innocent 
girl, 

With  eighteen  sweet  summers  dissolved 
in  the  light 

Of  her  lovely  and  lovable  eyes,  soft  and 
bright ! 

Then  her  guardian  wrote  to  the  dame, 
..."  Let  Constance 

Go  with  you  to  Paris.     I  trust  that  in 
France 

I  may  be  ere  the  close  of  the  year.     I 
confide 

My  life's  treasure  to  you.     Let  her  see, 
at  your  side, 

The  world  which  we  live  in." 

To  Paris  then  came 

Constance  to  abide  with  that  old  stately 
dame 

In  that  old  stately  Faubourg. 

The  young  Englishman 

Thus  met  her.     'T  was  there  their  ac- 
quaintance began, 

There   it  closed.     That   old  miracle  — 
Love-at-first-sight  — 

Needs  no  explanations.     The  heart  reads 
aright 


Its  destiny  sometimes.  His  love  neither 
chidden 

Nor  checked,  the  young  soldier  was  gra- 
ciously bidden 

An  habitual  guest  to  that  house  by  the 
dame. 

His  own  candid  graces,  the  world-hon- 
ored name 

Of  his  father  (in  him  not  dishonored) 
were  both 

Fair  titles  to  favor.  His  love,  nothing 
loath, 

The  old  lady  observed,  was  returned  by 
Constance. 

And  as  the  child's  uncle  his  absence  from 
France 

Yet  prolonged,  she  (thus  easing  long 
self-gratulation) 

Wrote  to  him  a  lengthened  and  moving 
narration 

Of  the  graces  and  gifts  of  the  young 
English  wooer  : 

His  father's  fair  fame ;  the  boy's  defer- 
ence to  her ; 

His  love  for  Constance,  —  unaffected, 
sincere  ; 

And  the  girl's  love  for  him,  read  by  her 
in  those  clear 

Limpid  eyes ;  then  the  pleasure  with 
which  she  awaited 

Her  cousin's  approval  of  all  she  had 
stated. 

At  length  from  that  cousin  an  answer 
there  came, 

Brief,  stern  ;  such  as  stunned  and  as- 
tonished the  dame. 

"  Let  Constance  leave  Paris  with  you 

on  the  day 
You  receive  this.     Until  my  return  she 

may  stay 
At  her  convent  awhile.     If  my  niece 

wishes  ever 
To  behold  me  again,  understand,  she 

will  never 
Wed  that  man. 

"  You  have  broken  faith  with  me. 

Farewell  ! " 

No  appeal  from  that  sentence. 

It  needs  not  to  tell 
The  tears  of  Constance,  nor  the  grief  of 

her  lover  : 
The  dream  they  had  laid  out  their  lives 

in  was  over. 


134 


LUCILE. 


Bravely  strove  the  young  soldier  to  look 
in  the  face 

Of  a  life,  where  invisible  hands  seemed 
to  trace 

O'er  the  threshold,  these  words  .  .  . 
"  Hope  no  more  ! " 

Unretumed 

Had  his  love  been,  the  strong  manful 
heart  would  have  spurned 

That  weakness  which  suffers  a  woman  to 
lie 

At  the  roots  of  man's  life,  like  a  canker, 
and  dry 

And  wither  the  sap  of  life's  purpose. 
But  there 

Lay  the  bitterer  part  of  the  pain  !  Could 
he  dare 

To  forget  he  was  loved  ?  that  he  grieved 
not  alone  ? 

Recording  a  love  that  drew  sorrow  upon 

The  woman  he  loved,  for  himself  dare 
he  seek 

Surcease  to  that  sorrow,  which  thus 
held  him  weak, 

Beat  him  down,  and  destroyed  him  ? 

News  reached  him  indeed, 

Through  a  comrade,  who  brought  him 
a  letter  to  read 

From  the  dame  who  had  care  of  Con- 
stance (it  was  one 

To  whom,  when  at  Paris,  the  boy  had 
been  known, 

A  Frenchman,  and  friend  of  the  Fau- 
bourg), which  said 

That  Constance,  although  never  a  mur- 
mur betrayed 

"What  she  suffered,  in  silence  grew  paler 
each  day, 

And  seemed  visibly  drooping  and  dying 
away. 

It  was  then  he  sought  death. 

XVII. 

Thus  the  tale  ends.     'T  was  told 

With  such  broken,  passionate  words,  as 
unfold 

In gliinpsesalone,acoiled grief.  Through 
each  pause 

Of  its  fitful  recital,  in  raw  gusty  flaws, 

The  rain  shook  the  canvas,  unheeded  ; 
aloof, 

And  unheeded,  the  night-wind  around 
the  tent-root 

At  intervals  wirbled.  And  when  all 
was  said, 

The  sick  man,  exhausted,  drooped  back- 
ward his  head,  • 


And  fell  into  a  feverish  slumber. 

Long  while 
Sat  the  Sosur  Seraphine,  in  deep  thought. 

The  still  smile 
That  was  wont,  angel-wise,  to  inhabit 

her  face 
And  make  it  like  heaven,  was  fled  from 

its  place 
In  her  eyes,  on  her  lips ;  and  a  deep 

sadness  there 

Seemed  to  darken  the  lines  of  long  sor- 
row and  care, 
As  low  to  herself  she  sighed  .  .  . 

"Hath  it,  Eugene, 
Been  so  long,  then,  the  struggle  ? .  .  . 

and  yet,  all  in  vain  ! 
Nay,  not  all  in  vain  !    Shall  the  world 

gain  a  man, 
And  yet  Heaven  lose  a  soul  ?    Have  I 

done  all  I  can  ? 
Soul  to  soul,  did  he  say  ?    Soul  to  soul, 

be  it  so  ! 
And    then,  —  soul  of   mine,   whither  ? 

whither  ? " 

XVIII. 

Large,  slow, 
Silent  tears  in  those  deep  eyes  ascended, 

and  fell. 
"Here,  at  least,  I  have  failed  not"  .  .  . 

she  mused  ..."  this  is  well  !  " 
She  drew  from  her  bosom  two  letters. 

In  one, 
A  mother's  heart,  wild  with  alarm  for 

her  son, 
Breathed   bitterly  forth   its  despairing 

appeal. 
"The  pledge  of  a  love  owed  to  thee,  0 

Lucile  ! 
The  hope  of  a  home  saved  by  thee,  — 

of  a  heart 

Which  hath  never  since  then  (thrice  en- 
deared as  thou  art !) 
Ceased  to  bless  thee,  to  pray  for  thee, 

save  !  .  .  .  save  my  son  ! 
And  if  not"  .  .  .  the  letter  went  brokenly 

on, 
"  Heaven  help  us  ! " 

Then  followed,  from  Alfred,  a  few 
Blotted  heart-broken  pages.    He  mourn- 
fully drew, 
With  pathos,  the  picture  of  that  earnest 

youth, 
So  unlike  his  own  :  how  in  beauty  and 

troth 
He  had  nurtured  that  nature,  so  simple 

.-mil  brave  ! 


LUCILE. 


135 


And  how  he  had  striven  his  son's  youth 

to  save 
From  the  errors  so   sadly  redeemed  in 

his  own, 
And  so  deeply  repented  :  how  thus,  in 

that  son, 
In  whose  youth  he  had  garnered  his  age, 

he  had  seemed 
To  be  blessed  by  a  pledge  that  the  past 

was  redeemed, 
And  forgiven.     He  bitterly  went  on  to 

speak 
Of  the  boy's  baffled  love  ;  in  which  fate 

seemed  to  break 
Unawares  on  his  dreams  with  retributive 

pain, 
And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  rose  to  scourge 

back  again 
The  hopes  of  the  future.      To  sue  for 

consent 
Pride  forbade  :  and  the  hope  his  old  foe 

might  relent 
Experience  rejected  .  .  .   "My  life  for 

the  boy's  ! " 
(He  exclaimed);  "for  I  die  with  my  son, 

if  he  dies  ! 
Lucile  !  Heaven  bless  you  for  all  you 

have  done  ! 
Save  him,  save  him,  Lucile  !  save  my 

son  !  save  my  son  ! " 


"  Ay  !  "  murmured  the  Sceur  Seraphine 
..."  heart  to  heart ! 

There,  at  least,  I  have  failed  not !  Ful- 
filled is  my  part  ? 

Accomplished  my  mission  ?  One  act 
crowns  the  whole. 

Do  I  linger  ?  Nay,  be  it  so,  then  !  .  .  . 
Soul  to  soul ! " 

She  knelt  down,  and  prayed.  Still  the 
boy  slumbered  on. 

Dawn  broke.  The  pale  nun  from  the 
bedside  was  gone. 


Meanwhile,  'mid  his  aides-de-camp,  bus- 
ily bent 

O'er  the  daily  reports,  in  his  well-ordered 
tent 

There  sits  a  French  General,  —  bronzed 
by  the  sun 

And  seared  by  the  sands  of  Algeria. 
One 

Who  forth  from  the  wars  of  the  wild 
Kabylee 


Had  strangely  and  rapidly  risen  to  be 
The  idol,   the  darling,  the  dream,  and 

the  star 
Of  the  younger  French  chivalry  :  daring 

in  war, 

And  wary  in  council.     He  entered,  in- 
deed, 
Late  in  life  (and  discarding  his   Bour- 

bonite  creed) 
The  Army  of  France  :  and  had  risen,  in 

part, 
From  a  singular  aptitude  proved  for  the 

art 
Of  that  wild  desert  warfare  of  ambush, 

surprise, 
And   stratagem,   which  to   the  French 

camp  supplies 
Its  subtlest   intelligence  ;   partly   from 

chance  ; 
Partly,  too,  from  a  name  and  position 

which  France 
Was  proud  to  put  forward  ;  but  mainly, 

in  fact, 
From  the   prudence  to  plan,    and  the 

daring  to  act, 
In     frequent     emergencies     startlingly 

shown, 

To  the  rank  which  he  now  held,  —  in- 
trepidly won 
With  many  a  wound,  trenched  in  many 

a  scar, 
From  fierce  Milianah  and  Sidi-Sakhdar. 


All  within,  and  without,  that,  warm  tent 
seems  to  bear 

Smiling  token  of  provident  order  and 
care. 

All  about,  a  well-fed,  well-clad  soldiery 
stands 

In  groups  round  the  music  of  mirth- 
breathing  bands. 

In  and  out  of  the  tent,  all  day  long,  to 
and  fro, 

The  messengers  come,  and  the  messen- 
gers go, 

Upon  missions  of  mercy,  or  errands  of 
toil: 

To  report  how  the  sapper  contends  with 
the  soil 

In  the  terrible  trench,  how  the  sick  man 
is  faring 

In  the  hospital  tent :  and,  combining, 
comparing, 

Constructing,  within  moves  the  brain  of 
one  man, 

Moving  all. 


136 


LUCILE. 


Ho  is  bending  his  brow  o'er  some  plan 

For  the  hospital  service,  wise,  skilful, 
humane. 

The    officer    standing    beside    him    is 
fain 

To  refer  to  the  angel  solicitous  cares 

Of  the  Sisters  of  Charity :  one  he  de- 
clares 

To  be  known  through  the  camp  as  a 
seraph  of  grace  : 

He  has  seen,  all  have  seen  her  indeed, 
in  each  place 

Where  suffering  is  seen,  silent,  active,  — 
the  Sceur  ... 

Soeur  .  .  .  how  do  they  call  her  ? 

"Ay,  truly,  of  her 

1  have  heard  much,"  the  General,  mus- 
ing, replies  ; 

"  And  we  owe  her  already  (unless  nimor 
lies) 

The  lives  of  not  few  of  our  bravest.    You 
mean  .  .  . 

Ay,  how  do  they  call  her  ?  .  .  .  the  Sceur 
—  Seraphine, 

(Is  it  not  so  ?)      I  rarely  forget  names 
once  heard." 

"Yes;    the  Soeur  Seraphine.      Her  I 

meant." 

"On  my  word, 
I  have  much  wished  to  see  her.    I  fancy 

I  trace, 
In  some  facts  traced  to  her,  something 

more  than  the  grace 
Of  an  angel  :  I  mean  an  acute  human 

mind, 

Ingenious,  constructive,  intelligent.  Find 
And,  if  possible,  let  her  come  to  me. 

We  shall, 
I  think,  aid  each  other. 

"  Oui,  man  G6n6ral  ; 
I  believe  she  has  lately  obtained  the 

permission 
To  tend  some  sick  man  in  the  Second 

Division 
Of  our  Ally  :  they  say  a  relation. 

"Ay,  so? 
A  relation  ? " 

"T  is  said  so." 

"The  name  do  you  know  ?" 
"  Non,  man  Central." 

While  they  spoke  yet,  there  went 
A  murmur  and  stir  round  the  door  of 

the  tent. 

"  A  Sister  of  Charity  craves,  in  a  case 
Of  urgent  and  serious  importance,  the 


Of  brief  private  speech  with  the  General 

there. 
Will  the  General  speak  with  her  ? " 

"Bid  her  declare 
Her  mission." 

"  She  will  not.    She  craves  to  be  seen 
And  be  heard." 

"Well,  her  name  then?" 

"The  Soeur  Serajiliinr. " 
"  Clear  the  tent     She  may  enter." 

XXII. 

The  tent  has  been  cleared. 
The  chieftain  stroked  moodily  somewhat 

his  beard, 
A  sable  long  silvered  :  and  pressed  down 

his  brow 
On  his  hand,   heavy  veined.     All  his 

countenance,  now 
Unwitnessed,  at  once  fell  dejected,  and 

dreary, 
As  a  curtain  let  fall  by  a  hand  that 's 

grown  weary, 
Into  puckers  and  folds.     From  his  lips, 

unrepressed, 
Steals  th'  impatient  quick  sigh,  which 

reveals  in  man's  breast 
A  conflict  concealed,  an  experience  at 

strife 
With  itself,  —  the  vexed  heart's  passing 

protest  on  life. 
He  turned  to  his  papers.     He  heard  the 

light  tread 
Of  a  faint  foot  behind  him  :  and,  lifting 

his  head, 
Said,  "  Sit,  Holy  Sister  !  your  worth  is 

well  known 
To  the  hearts  of  our  soldiers ;  nor  less 

to  my  own. 
I  have  much  wished  to  see  you.     I  owe 

you  some  thanks  : 
In  the  name  of  all  those  you  have  saved 

to  our  ranks 
I  record  them.     Sit  !     Now  then,  your 

mission  ? " 

The  nun 
Paused  silent.     The   General  eyed  her 

anon 
More  keenly.    His  aspect  grew  troubled. 

A  change 
Darkened  over  his  features.  He  muttered 

..."  Strange  !  strange  ! 
Any  face  should  so  strongly  remind  me 

of  her  ! 
Fool !  again  the  delirium,  the  dream  I 

does  it  stir  ? 


LUCILE. 


137 


Does  it  move  as  of  old  ?     Psha  ! 

"Sit,  Sister  !  I  wait 

Your  answer,  iny  time  halts  but  hur- 
riedly.    State 

The  cause  why  you  seek  me  T" 

"  The  cause  ?  ay,  the  cause  !  " 

She  vaguely  repeated.      Then,   after  a 
pause,  — 

As  one  who,  awaked   unawares,   would 
put  back 


The  sleep  that  forever  returns  in  the 
track 

Of  dreams  which,  though  scared  and 
dispersed,  not  the  less 

Settle  back  to  faint  eyelids  that  yield 
'neath  their  stress, 

Like  doves  to  a  penthouse,  —  a  move- 
ment she  made, 

Less  toward  him  than  away  from  herself ; 
drooped  her  head. 


138 


LUCILE. 


And  folded  her  hands  on  her  bosom : 

long,  spare, 
Fatigued,    mournful    hands  !       Not    a 

stream  <>f  Mi-ay  hair 
Escaped  tlif  pair  hands;    scarce   more 

pale  than  the  face 
Which  they  bound  and  locked  up  in  a 

rigid  whit. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  him.     There  crept 

a  vague  a\vr 
OVr  his  sense,  such  as  ghosts  cast. 

"Eugene  de  Luvois, 
The  cause  which  recalls   me   again   to 

your  side 
Is  a  promise  that  rests  unfulfilled,"  she 

replied. 
"I  come  to  fulfil  it." 

He  sprang  from  the  place 
Where  he  sat,  pressed  his  hand,  as  in 

doubt,  o'er  his  fare  ; 
And,  cautiously  feeling  each  step  o'er 

the  ground 

That  he  trod  on  (as  one  who  walks  fear- 
ing the  sound 
Of  his  footstep  may  startle  and  scare  out 

of  sight 
Some  strange  sleeping  creature  on  which 

he  would  'light 
Unawares),  crept  towards  her ;  one  heavy 

hand  laid 
On  her  shoulder  in  silence  ;  bent  o'er  her 

his  head, 
Searched  her  face  with  a  long  look  of 

troubled  appeal 
Against  doubt ;  staggered  backward,  and 

murmured  ..."  Lucile  ! 
Thus  we  meet  then  ? .  . .  here ! .  . .  thus?" 
"Soul  to  soul,  ay,  Eugene, 
As  I   pledged  you   my  word   that   we 

should  meet  again. 
Dead,  .  .  ."  she  murmured,  "long  dead  ! 

all  that  lived  in  our  lives,  — 
Thine  and  mine,  —  saving  that  which 

ev'n  life's  self  survives. 
The  soul  !     'T  is  my  soul  seeks   thine 

own.     What  ma)'  reach 
From  my  life  to  thy  life  (so  wide  each 

from  each  !) 
Save  the  soul  to  the  soul  ?    To  thy  soul 

I  would  speak. 
May  I  do  - 

He  said  (worked  and  white  was  his  cheek 
As  he  raised  it),  "Speak  to  me  !  " 

1 1,  tender,  serene, 
And  sad  was  the  gaze  which  the  Sceur 

Seraphine 
Held  on  him.     She  spoke, 


XXIII. 

As  some  minstrel  may  fling, 
Preluding  the  music  yet  mute  in 

string, 
A  swift  hand  athwart  the  hushed  heart 

of  the  whole, 
Seeking  which  note  most  fitly  may  first 

move  the  soul  ; 
And,  leaving  untroubled  the  deep  chords 

below, 
Move  pathetic  in  numbers  remote  ;  — 

even  so 
The  voice  which  was  moving  the  heart 

of  that  man 
Far  away  from  its  yet  voiceless  purpose 

began, 
Far  away  in  the  pathos  remote  of  the 

past ; 
Until,   through  her  words,   rose  before 

him,  at  last, 
Bright   and  dark  in  their  beauty,   the 

hopes  that  were  gone 
Unaccomplished  from  life. 

He  was  mute, 

XXIV. 

She  went  on. 
And  still  further  down  the  dim  past  did 

she  lead 
Each  yielding  remembrance,  far,  far  off, 

to  feed 

'Mid  the  pastures  of  youth,  in  the  twi- 
light of  hope, 
And  the  valleys  of  boyhood,  the  fresh - 

flowered  slope 
Of  life's  dawning  land  ! 

'T  is  the  heart  of  a  boy, 
With  its  indistinct,  passionate  prescience 

of joy  ! 

The  unproved  desire,  —  the  unaimed  as- 
piration, — 
The  deep  conscious  life  that  forestalls 

consummation  ; 
With  ever  a  flitting  delight,  —  one  arm's 

length 

In  advance  of  the  august  inward  impulse. 

The  strength 

Of  the  spirit  which  troubles  the  seed  in 

the  sand 
With  the  birth  of  the  palm-tree  !     Let 

ages  expand 
The  glorious  creature  !     The   ages   lie 

shut 
(Safe,  see  !)  in  the  seed,  at  time's  signal 

to  put 
Forth  their  beauty  and  power,  leaf  by 

leaf,  layer  on  layer, 


LUCILE. 


139 


Till  the  palm  strikes  the  sun,  and  stands 

broad  in  blue  air. 
So  the  palm  in  the  palm-seed  !  so,  slowly 

—  so,  wrought 
Year  by  year  unperceived,  hope  on  hope, 

thought  by  thought, 
Trace  the  growth  of  the  man  from  its 

germ  in  the  boy. 
Ah,  but  Nature,  that  nurtures,  may  also 

destroy  ! 
Charm  the  wind  and  the  sun,  lest  some 

chance  intervene  ! 
While  the  leaf's  in  the  bud,  while  the 

stem 's  in  the  green, 
A  light  bird  bends  the  branch,  a  light 

breeze  breaks  the  bough, 
Which,  if  spared  by  the  light  breeze,  the 

light  bird,  may  grow 
To  baffle  the  tempest,  and  rock  the  high 

nest, 
And  take  both  the  bird  and  the  breeze 

to  its  breast. 
Shall  we  save  a  whole  forest  in  sparing 

one  seed  ? 
Save  the  man  in  the  boy  ?  in  the  thought 

save  the  deed  ? 
Let  the  whirlwind  uproot  the  grown 

tree,  if  it  can  ! 
Save  the  seed  from  the  north-wind.     So 

let  the  grown  man 
Face  out  fate.     Spare  the  man-seed  in 

youth. 

He  was  dumb. 
She  went  one  step  further. 
v 

XXV. 

Lo  !  manhood  is  come. 

And  love,  the  wild  song-bird,  hath  flown 
to  the  tree, 

And  the  whirlwind  comes  after.  Now 
prove  we,  and  see  : 

What  shade  from  the  leaf?  what  sup- 
port from  the  branch  ? 

Spreads  the  leaf  broad  and  fair  ?  holds 
the  boijgh  strong  and  stanch  ? 

There,  he  saw  himself,  —  dark,  as  he 
stood  on  that  night, 

The  last  when  they  met  and  they  parted  : 
a  sight 

For  heaven  to  mourn  o'er,  for  hell  to  re- 
joice ! 

An  ineffable  tenderness  troubled  her 
voice  ; 

It  grew  weak,  and  a  sigh  broke  it  through. 
Then  he  said 

(Never  looking  at  her,  never  lifting  his 
head, 


As  though,  at  his  feet,  there  lay  visibly 

hurled 
Those  fragments),  "  It  was  not  a  love, 

't  was  a  world, 
'T  was  a  life  that  lay  ruined,  Lucile  ! " 

XXVI. 

She  went  on. 

"  So  be  it !   Perish  Babel,  arise  Babylon  ! 

From  ruins  like  these  rise  the  fanes  that 
shall  last, 

And  to  build  up  the  future  heaven  shat- 
ters the  past." 

"Ay,"  he  moodily  murmured,  "and 
who  cares  to  scan 

The  heart's  perished  world,  if  the  world 
gains  a  man  ? 

From  the  past  to  the  present,  though 
late,  I  appeal ; 

To  the  nun  Seraphine,  from  the  woman 
Lucile  ! " 

XXVII. 

Lucile  ! ...  the  old  name,  —  the  old  self  ! 

silenced  long  : 
Heard  once  more  !  felt  once  more  ! 

As  some  soul  to  the  throng 
Of  invisible  spirits  admitted,  baptized 
By  death  to  a  new  name  and  nature,  — 

surprised 
'Mid  the   songs  of  the   seraphs,  hears 

faintly,  and  far, 
Some  voice  from  the  earth,  left  below  a 

dim  star, 
Calling  to  her  forlornly  ;  and  (saddening 

the  psalms 
Of  the  angels,  and  piercing  the  Paradise 

palms  !) 
The  name  borne  'mid  earthly  beloveds 

on  earth 
Sighed  above  some  lone  grave  in  the  land 

of  her  birth  ;  — 
So  that  one  word  .  . .  Lucile  !  .  .  .  stirred 

the  Sceur  Seraphine, 
For  a  moment.     Anon  she  resumed  her 

serene 
And  concentrated  calm. 

"  Let  the  Nun,  then,  retrace 
The  life  of  the  Soldier  ! "  .  .  .  she  said, 

with  a  face 
That  glowed,  gladdening  her  words. 

"  To  the  present  I  come  : 
Leave  the  Past." 
There  her  voice  rose,  and  seemed  as 

when  some 
Pale  Priestess  proclaims  from  her  temple 

the  praise 


140 


LTJCILE. 


Of  the  hero  whose  brows  she  is  crowning 
with  bays. 

Step  by  step  did  she  follow  his  path  from 
the  place 

Where  their  two  paths  diverged.  Year 
by  year  did  she  trace 

(Familiar  with  all)  his,  the  soldier's  ex- 
istence. 

Her  words  were  of  trial,  endurance,  re- 
sistance ; 

Of  the  leaguer  around  this  besieged  world 
of  ours : 

And  the  same  sentinels  that  ascend  the 
same  towers 

And  report  the  same  foes,  the  same  fears, 
the  same  strife, 

Waged  alike  to  the  limits  of  each  human 
life. 

She  went  on  to  speak  of  the  lone  moody 
lord, 

Shut  up  in  his  lone  moody  halls  :  every 
word 

Held  the  weight  of  a  tear  :  she  recorded 
the  good 

He  had  patiently  wrought  through  a 
whole  neighborhood  ; 

And  the  blessing  that  lived  on  the  lips 
of  the  poor, 

By  the  peasant's  hearthstone,  or  the  cot- 
tager's door. 

There  she  paused :  and  her  accents 
seemed  dipped  in  the  hue 

Of  his  own  sombre  heart,  as  the  picture 
she  drew 

Of  the  poor,  proud,  sad  spirit,  rejecting 
love's  wages, 

Yet  working  love's  work  ;  reading  back- 
wards life's  pages 

For  penance  ;  and  stubbornly,  many  a 
a  time, 

Both  missing  the  moral,  and  marring 
the  rhyme. 

Then  she  spoke  of  the  soldier  !  .  .  .  the 
man's  work  and  fame, 

The  pride  of  a  nation,  a  world's  just 
acclaim  ! 

Life's  inward  approval ! 

XXVIII. 

Her  voice  reached  his  heart, 
And  sank  lower.     She  spoke  of  herself : 

how,  apart 
And    unseen,  —  far    away,  —  she    had 

watched,  year  by  year, 
With  how  many  a  blessing,  how  many  a 

tear, 


And  how  many  a  prayer,  every  stage  in 

the  stiitr  : 
Guessed  the  thought  in  the  deed  :  traced 

the  love  in  the  life  : 
Blessed  the  man  in  the  man's  work  ! 

"  Thy  work  ...  0,  not  mine  ! 
Thine,  Lucile  ! "  .  .  .  he  exclaimed  .  .  . 

"  all  the  worth  of  it  thine 
If  worth  there  be  in  it !  " 

Her  answer  conveyed 
His  reward,  and  her  own  :  joy  that  can- 
not be  said 
Alone  by  the  voice  .  .  .  eyes  —  face  — 

spoke  silently  : 
All  the  woman,  one  grateful  emotion  ! 

And  she 

A  poor  Sister  of  Charity  !  hers  a  life  spent 
In  one  silent  effort  for  others  !  .  .  .  . 

She  bent 
Her  divine  face  above  him,  and  filled  up 

his  heart 
With  the  look  that  glowed  from  it. 

Then  slow,  with  soft  art, 
Fixed  her  aim,  and  moved  to  it. 

XXIX. 

He,  the  soldier  humane, 
He,  the  hero  ;  whose  heart  hid  in  glory 

the  pain 
Of  a  youth  disappointed  ;  whose  life  had 

made  known 
The  value  of  man's  life  !  .  .  .  that  youth 

overthrown 
And  retrieved,  had  it  left  him  no  pity 

for  youth 
In  another  ?  his  own  life  of  strenuous 

truth 
Accomplished  in  act,  had  it  taught  him 

no  care 

For  the  life  of  another  ? ...  0  no !  every- 
where 
In  the  camp  which  she  moved  through, 

she  came  face  to  face 
With  some  noble  token,  some  generou? 

trace 
Of  his  active  humanity  .  .  . 

"  Well,"  he  replied, 
"If  it  be  so?" 

"  I  come  from  the  solemn  bedside 
Of  a  man   that   is   dying,"   she    said. 

"While  we  speak 
A  life  is  in  jeopardy.' 

"Quick  then  !  you  seek 
Aid  or  medicine,  or  what  ? " 

"'T  is  not  needed,"  she  said. 
"  Medicine  ?  yes,  for  tire  mind  !    T  is  » 

heart  that  needs  aid  ! 


LUCILE. 


141 


You,  Eugene  de  Luvois,  you  (and  you 

only)  can 
Save  the  life  of  this  man.     Will  you 

save  it  ? " 

"Whatman? 
How  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  .  .  .  can  you  ask  ?  " 

She  went  rapidly  on 
To  her  object  in  brief  vivid  words  .  .  . 

The  young  son 
Of  Matilda  and  Alfred  —  the  boy  lying 

there 
Half  a  mile  from  that  tent-door — the 

father's  despair, 
The  mother's  deep  anguish — the  pride 

of  the  boy 
In  the  father  —  the  father's  one  hope 

and  one  joy 
In  the  son  :  —  the  son  now  —  wounded, 

dying  !     She  told 
Of  the  father's  stern  struggle  with  life  : 

the  boy's  bold, 
Pure,   and  beautiful   nature  :    the  fair 

life  before  him 
If  that  life  were  but  spared  .  .  .  yet  a 

word  might  restore  him  ! 
The  boy's  broken  love  for  the  niece  of 

Eugene ! 
Its  pathos :  the  girl's  love  for  him  ;  how, 

half  slain 
In  his  tent  she  had  found  him ;   won 

from  him  the  tale  ; 
Sought  to  nurse  back  his  life  ;  found 

her  efforts  still  fail ; 
Beaten  back  by  a  love  that  was  stronger 

'  than  life  ; 
Of  how  bravely  till  then  he  had  stood  in 

that  strife 
Wherein  England  and  France  in  their 

best  blood,  at  last, 
Had  bathed  from  remembrance  the  woun  ds 

of  the  past. 
And  shall  nations  be  nobler  than  men  ? 

Are  not  great 
Men  the  models  of  nations  ?     For  what 

is  a  state 
But  the  many's  confused  imitation  of 

one  ? 
Shall  he,  the  fair  hero  of  France,  on  the 

son 
Of  his  ally  seek  vengeance,  destroying 

perchance 
An  innocent  life,  —  here,  when  England 

and  France 
Have  forgiven  the  sins  of  .their  fathers 

of  yore, 
And  baptized  a  new  hope  in  their  sons' 

recent  gore  ? 


She  went  on  to  tell  how  the  boy  had 

clung  still 

To  life,  for  the  sake  of  life's  uses,  until 
From  his  weak  hands  the  strong  effort 

dropped,  stricken  down  . 
By  the  news  that  the  heart  of  Constance, 

like  his  own, 
Was  breaking  beneath  .  .  . 

But  there  "  Hold  ! "  he  exclaimed, 
Interrupting,  "forbear!"  .  .  .  his  whole 

face  was  inflamed 
With  the  heart's  swarthy  thunder  which 

yet,  while  she  spoke, 
Had  been  gathering  silent,  —  at  last  the 

storm  broke 
In  grief  or  in  wrath  .  .  . 

"  'T  is  to  him,  then,"  he  cried,  .  .  . 
Checking  suddenly  short  the  tumultuous 

stride, 
"That  I  owe  these  late  greetings,  — for 

him  you  are  here,  — 
For  his  sake  you  seek  me,  —  for  him,  it 

is  clear, 
You  have  deigned  at  the  last  to  bethink 

you  again 
Of  this  long-forgotten  existence  !  " 

"Eugene!" 
"  Ha  !  fool  that  I  was  !  "...  he  went 

on,  ...  "and  just  now, 
While   you  spoke  yet,    my  heart  was 

beginning  to  grow 
Almost  boyish  again,  almost  sure  of  one 

friend  ! 
Yet  this  was  the  meaning  of  all,  —  this 

the  end  ! 
Be  it  so  !     There  's  a  sort  of  slow  justice 

(admit !) 
In  this,  —  that  the  word   that   man's 

finger  hath  writ 
In  fire  on  my  heart,  I  return  him  at 

last. 
Let  him  learn  that  word,  —  Never  ! " 

"  Ah,  still  to  the  past 
Must  the  present  be  vassal  ? "  she  said. 

"  In  the  hour 
We  last  parted  I  urged  you  to  put  forth 

the  power 

Which  I  felt  to  be  yours,  in  the  con- 
quest of  life. 
Yours,  the  promise  to  strive  :  mine,  — 

to  watch  o'er  the  strife. 
I  foresaw  you  would  conquer  ;  you  have 

conquered  much, 
Much,  indeed,  that  is  noble  !     I  hail  it 

as  such, 
And  am  here  to  record  and  applaud  it. 

I  saw 


142 


LUCILE. 


Not  the  less  in  your  nature,  Eugene  de 

Luvois, 
One  peril,  —  one  point  where  I  feared 

you  would  fail 
To  subdue  that  worst  foe  which  a  man 

can  assail,  — 
Himself:    and   I    promised  that,    if    I 

should  see 
My  champion  once  falter,  or  bend  the 

brave  knee, 
That  moment  would  bring  me  again  to 

his  side. 
That   moment  is  come  !   for  that  peril 

was  pride, 
And  you  falter.     I  plead  for  yourself, 

and  one  other, 
For  that  gentle  child  without  father  or 

mother, 
To  whom  you  are  both.    I  plead,  soldier 

of  France, 
For  your  own  nobler  nature,  — and  plead 

for  Constance  ! " 
At  the  sound  of  that  name  he  averted 

his  head. 
•'Constance  !  .  .  .  Ay,  she  entered  my 

lone  life  "  (he  said) 
•'  When  its  sun  was  long  set  ;  and  hung 

over  its  night 
Her  own  starry  childhood.     I  have  but 

that  light, 
In  the  midst  of  much  darkness  !     Who 

names  me  but  she 
With  titles  of  love  ?  and  what  rests  there 

for  me 
In  the  silence  of  age  save  the  voice  of 

that  child  ? 

The  child  of  my  own  better  life,  unde- 
nted ! 
My  creature,  carved  out  of  my  heart  of 

hearts  ! " 

"Say," 
Said  the  Soeur  Seraphine,  —  "are  you 

able  to  lay 
Your  hand  as  a  knight  on  your  heart  as 

a  man 
And  swear  that,  whatever  may  happen, 

you  can 

Feel  assured  for  the  life  you  thus  cher- 
ish?" 

"How  so?" 
He  looked  up.     "If  the  boy  should  die 

thus?" 

"Yes,  I  know 
What  your  look  would  imply  .  .  .  this 

sleek  stranger  forsooth  ! 
Because  on  his  cheek  was  the  red  rose 

of  youth 


The  heart  of  my  niece  must  break  for 

it!" 

She  cried, 
"  Nay,  but  hear  me  yet  further  ! " 

With  slow  heavy  stride, 
Unheeding  her  words,  he  was  pacing  the 

tent, 
He  was  muttering  low  to  himself  as  he 

went. 
"Ay,  these  young  things  lie  safe  in  our 

heart  just  so  long 
As   their  wings   are   in   growing ;   and 

when  tnese  are  strong 
They  break  it,  and  farewell !    the  bird 

flies  !  "  .  .  . 

The  nun 

Laid  her  hand  on  the  soldier,  and  mur- 
mured, "The  sun 
Is  descending,  life  fleets  while  we  talk 

thus  !     0,  yet 

Let  this  day  upon  one  final  victory  set, 
And  complete  a  life's  conquest  !  " 

He  said,  "Understand  ! 
If  Constance  wed  the  son  of  this  man, 

by  whose  hand 
My  heart  hath  been  robbed,  she  is  lost 

to  my  life  ! 
Can   her  home   be  my  home  ?    Can  I 

claim  in  the  wife 
Of  that  man's  son  the  child  of  my  age  ? 

At  her  side 
Shall  he  stand  on  my  hearth  ?    Shall  I 

sue  to  the  bride 
Of ...  enough  ! 

"Ah,  and  you  immemorial  halls 
Of  my  Norman  forefathers,  whose  shadow 

yet  falls 
On  my  fancy,  and  fuses  hope,  memory, 

past, 
Present,  —  all,  in  one  silence  !  old  trees 

to  the  blast 
Of  the  North  Sea  repeating  the  tale  of 

old  days, 
Nevermore,  nevermore  in  the  wild  bosky 

ways 

Shall  I  hear  through  your  nmbrage  an- 
cestral the  wind 
Prophesy  as  of  yore,  when  it  shook  the 

il. •'•]>  mind 
Of  my  boyhood,  with  whispers  from  out 

the  far  years 
Of  love,   fame,    the  raptures  life  cools 

down  with  tears  ! 
Henceforth  shall  the  tread  of  a  Vargrave 

alone 
Rouse  your  echoes  ? " 

"  0,  think  not,"  she  said,  "  of  the  son 


LUCILE. 


143 


Of  the  man  whom  unjustly  you  hate  ; 

only  think 
Of   this   young  human   creature,    that 

cries  from  the  brink 
Of  a  grave  to  your  mercy  ! 

"  Recall  your  own  words 
(Words    my  memory    mournfully  ever 

records  !) 
How  with  love  may  be  wrecked  a  whole 

life  !  then,  Eugene, 
Look  with  me  (still  those  words  in  our 

ears  !)  once  again 
At  this  young  soldier  sinking  from  life 

here,  —  dragged  down 
By  the  weight  of  the  love  in  his  heart : 

no  renown, 
No  fame  comforts  him/  nations  shout 

not  above 
The  lone  grave  down  to  which  he  is 

bearing  the  love 
Which  life    has   rejected  !      Will    you 

stand  apart  ? 
You,  with  such  a  love's  memory  deep  in 

your  heart  ! 
You  the  hero,  whose  life  hath  perchance 

been  led  on 
Through  the  deeds  it  hath  wrought  to 

the  fame  it  hath  won, 
By  recalling  the  visions  and  dreams  of 

a  youth, 
Such   as  lies  at  your  door  now  :    who 

have  but,  in  truth, 
To  stretch  forth  a  hand,  to  speak  only 

one  word, 
And  by  that  word  you  rescue  a  life  ! " 

He  was  stirred. 
Still  he  sought  to  put  from  him  the  cup ; 

bowed  his  face 

On  his  hand ;  and  anon,  as  though  wish- 
ing to  chase 
With  one  angry  gesture  his  own  thoughts 

aside, 
He  sprang  up,   brushed  past  her,    and 

bitterly  cried, 
"  No  !  —  Constance  wed  a  Vargrave  !  — 

I  cannot  consent  !  " 
Then  uprose  the  Sceur  Seraphine. 

The  low  tent, 
In  her  sudden  uprising,  seemed  dwarfed 

by  the  height 
From  which  those  imperial  eyes  poured 

the  light 
Of  their  deep  silent  sadness  upon  him. 

No  won dei- 
He  felt,   as  it  were,   his  own  stature 

shrink  under 


The  compulsion  of  that  grave  regard  ! 

For  between 

The  Due  de  Luvois  and  the  Sceur  Sera- 
phine 
At  that  moment  there  rose  all  the  height 

of  one  soul 
O'er  another  ;  she  looked  down  on  him 

from  the  whole 
Lonely  length  of  a  life.     There  were  sad 

nights  and  days, 
There  were  long  months  and  years  in 

that  heart-searching  gaze  ; 
And  her  voice,   when  she  spoke,  with 

sharp  pathos  thrilled  through 
And  transfixed  him. 

"  Eugene  de  Luvois,  but  for  you, 
I   might   have   been    now,  —  not    this 

wandering  nun, 
But  a  mother,  a  wife,  —  pleading,  not 

for  the  son 
Of  another,  but  blessing  some  child  of  my 

own, 
His,  —  the  man's  that  I  once  loved  ! .  .  . 

Hush  !  that  which  is  done 
I  regret  not.     I  breathe  no  reproaches. 

That 's  best 
Which  God  sends.     'T  was  His  will :  it 

is  mine.     And  the  rest 
Of  that  riddle  1  will  not  look  back  to. 

He  reads 
In  your  heart,  —  He  that  judges  of  all 

thoughts  and  deeds, 
With  eyes,    mine  forestall  not  !     This 

only  I  say  : 
You  have  not  the  right  (read  it,  you,  as 

you  may  !)  • 

To  say  ...  '  I  am  the  wronged.'  "... 
"Have  I  wronged  thee  ?  —  wronged 

thee  !  " 
He  faltered,  "Lucile,  ah,  Lucile  !  " 

"  Nay,  not  me," 
She  murmured,  "  but  man  !    The  lone 

nun  standing  here 
Has  no  claim  upon  earth,  and  is  passed 

from  the  sphere 
Of  earth's  wrongs  and  earth's  reparations. 

But  she, 
The   dead   woman,    Lucile,    she  whose 

grave  is  in  me, 
Demands  from  her  grave  reparation  to 

man, 
Reparation  to   God.      Heed,    0    heed, 

while  you  can, 
This  voice  from  the  grave  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  he  moaned,  "  I  obey 
The  Sceur  Seraphine.    There,  Lucile  !  let 

this  pay 


144 


LUCILE. 


Every  debt  that  is  due  to  that  grave. 

Now  lead  on  : 
I  follow  you,  Sceur  Seraphine  ! ...  To 

the  son 
Of   Lord    Alfred    Vargrave    .  .  .   and 

then,"  .  .  . 

As  he  spoke 
He  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  down  the  dun 

smoke 

Pointed  out  the  dark  hastions,  with  bat- 
teries crowned, 
Of  the  city  beneath  them  .  .  . 

"  Then,  there,  underground, 
And  valete  d  plauditc,  soon  as  may  be  ! 
Let  the  old  tree  go  down  to  the  earth,  — 

the  old  tree, 
With  the  worm  at  its  heart  !     Lay  the 

axe  to  the  root  ! 
Who  will  miss  the  old  stump,  so  we  save 

the  young  shoot  ? 
A  Vargrave  !  .  .  .  this  pays  all ...  Lead 

on  !  ...  In  the  seed 
Save  the  forest !  .  .  . 

"  I  follow  .  .  .  forth,  forth  !    where 

you  lead." 


The  day  was  declining  ;  a  day  sick  and 

damp. 
In  a  blank  ghostly  glare  shone  the  bleak 

ghostly  camp 
Of  the   English.      Alone  in  his   dim, 

spectral  tent 
(Himself  the  wan  spectre  of  youth),  with 

eyes  bent 
On  thi?  daylight  departing,  the  sick  man 

was  sitting 
Upon  his  low  ]>allet.     These  thoughts, 

vaguely  flitting, 
Crossed  the   silence   between   him  and 

death,  which  seemed  near. 
—  "  Pain  o'erreaches  itself,  so  is  balked  ! 

else,  how  bear 

This  intense  and  intolerable  solitude, 
With  its  eye  on  my  heart  and  its  hand 

on  my  blood  ? 
Pulse  by  pulse  !    Day  goes  down  :  yet 

she  comes  not  again. 
Other  suffering,  doubtless,  where  hope 

is  more  plain, 
Claims  her  elsewhere.     I  die,  strange  ! 

and  scarcely  feel  sad. 
0,  to  think  of  Constance  thus,  and  not 

to  go  mad  ! 
But   Death,   it  would  seem,   dulls  the 

sense  to  his  own 
Dull  doings  ..." 


XXXI. 

Between  those  sick  eyes  and  the  aun 
A  shadow  fell  thwart. 

XXXII. 

'T  is  the  pale  nun  once  more  ! 
But  who  stands  at  her  side,  mute  and 

dark  in  the  door  ? 
How  oft  had  he  watched  through  the 

glory  and  gloom 
Of  the  battle,  with  long,  longing  looks 

that  dim  plume 
Which  now  (one  stray  sunbeam  mpon  it) 

shook,  stooped 
To  where  the  tent-curtain,  dividing,  was 

looped  ! 
How  that  stern  face  had  haunted  and 

hovered  about 
The  dreams  it  still  scared  !  through  what 

fond  fear  and  doubt 
Had  the  boy  yeamed  in  heart  to  the 

hero  !     (What 's  like 
A  boy's  love  for  some  famous  man  ?) .  .  . 

O,  to  strike 
A  wild  path  through  the  battle,  down 

striking  perchance 
Some  rash  foeman  too  near  the  great 

soldier  of  France, 
And  so  fall  in  his  glorious  regard  !  .  .  . 

Oft,  how  oft 
Had  his  heart  flashed  this  hope   out, 

whilst  watching  aloft 
The  dim  battle  that  plume  dance  and 

dart,  —  never  seen 
So  near  till  this  moment !  how  eager  to 

glean 
Every  stray  word,  dropped  through  the 

camp-babble  in  praise 
Of  his  hero,  —  each  tale  of  old  ventu- 
rous days 
In  the  desert  !    And  now  .  .  .  could  he 

speak  out  his  heart 
Face  to  face  with  that  man  ere  he  died  ! 

XXXIII. 

With  a  start 
The  sick  soldier  sprang  up  :  the  blood 

sprang  up  in  him, 
To  his  throat,   and  o'erthrew  him  :  he 

reeled  back  :   a  dim 
Sanguine  haze  filled  his  eyes ;   in  his 

ears  rose  the  din 

And  rush,  as  of  cataracts  loosened  within, 
Through    which   he   saw    faintlj',    and 

heard,  the  pale  nun 
(Looking  larger  than   life,    where    she 

stood  in  the  sun) 


'THE   SICK   SOLDIER    SPRANG   UP- 


LUCILE. 


145 


Point  to  him  and  murmur,  "  Behold  !  " 

Then  that  plume 
Seemed  to  wave  like  a  fire,  and  fade  off 

in  the  gloom 
Which  momently  put  out  the  world. 

XXXIV. 

To  his  side 
Moved  the  man  the  boy  dreaded  yet  loved 

..."  Ah  !  "...  he  sighed, 
"The  smooth  brow,  the  fair  Vargrave 

face  !  and  those  eyes, 
All  the  mother's  !    The  old  things  again ! 
"Do  not  rise. 
You  suffer,  young  man  ? " 

THE  BOY. 
Sir,  I  die. 

THE  DUKE. 

Not  so  young ! 

THE  BOY. 

So  young  ?  yes  !  and  yet  I  have  tangled 
among 

The  frayed  warp  and  woof  of  this  brief 
life  of  mine 

Other  lives  than  my  own.  Could  my 
death  but  untwine 

The  vext  skein  .  .  .  but  it  will  not. 
Yes,  Duke,  young  —  so  young  ! 

And  1  knew  you  not  ?  yet  I  have  done 
you  a  wrong 

Irreparable  !  .  .  .  late,  too  late  to  repair. 

If  1  knew  any  means  .  .  .  but  I  know 
none !  .  .  .  I  swear, 

If  this  broken  fraction  of'time  could  ex- 
tend 

Into  infinite  lives  of  atonement,  no  end 

Would  seem  too  remote  for  my  grief 
(could  that  be  !) 

To  include  it !  Not  too  late,  however, 
for  me 

To  entreat :  is  it  too  late  for  you  to  for- 
give ? 

THE  DUKE. 
You  wrong  —  my  forgiveness  —  explain. 

THE  BOY. 

Could  I  live  ! 
Such  a  very  few  hours  left  to  life,  yet  I 

shrink, 

I  falter !  .  .  .  Yes,  Duke,  your  forgive- 
ness I  think 

Should  free  my  soul  hence. 
10 


Ah  !  you  could  not  surmise 
Thai   a   boy's   beating   heart,   burning 

thoughts,  longing  eyes 
Were  following  you  evermore  (heeded 

not !) 
While  the  battle  was  flowing  between 

us :  nor  what 
Eager,  dubious  footsteps  at  nightfall  oft 

went 
With  the  wind  and  the  rain,  round  and 

round  your  blind  tent, 
Persistent  and  wild  as  the  wind  and  the 

rain, 
Unnoticed  as  these,  weak  as  these,  and 

as  vain  ! 
0,  how  obdurate  then  looked  your  tent ! 

The  waste  air 
Grew  stern  at  the  gleam  which  said  .  .  . 

"Off!  he  is  there!" 
I  know  not  what  merciful  mystery  now 
Brings  you  here,  whence  the  man  whom 

you  see  lying  low 
Other  footsteps  (not  those  !)  must  soon 

bear  to  the  grave. 
But  death  is  at  hand,  and  the  few  words 

I  have 

Yet  to  speak,  I  must  speak  them  at  once. 

Duke,  I  swear, 

As  I  lie  here,  (Death's  angel  too  close 

not  to  hear  !) 
That  I  meant  not  this  wrong  to  you. 

Due  de  Luvois, 
I  loved  your  niece  —  loved  ?  why,  I  love 

her  !     I  saw, 
And,  seeing,  how  could  I  but  love  her  ? 

I  seemed 
Born  to  love  her.     Alas,  were  that  all ! 

had  I  dreamed 
Of  this  love's  cruel  consequence  as  it 

rests  now 

Ever  fearfully  present  before  me,  I  vow 
That   the   secret,   unknown,    had   gone 

down  to  the  tomb 
Into  which  I  descend  ...  0  why,  whilst 

there  was  room 
In  life  left  for  warning,  had  no  one  the 

heart 
To  warn  me  ?    Had  any  one  whispered 

..."  Depart  !" 
To  the  hope  the  whole  world  seemed  in 

league  then  to  nurse  ! 
Had  any  one  hinted  ..."  Beware  of 

the  curse 
Which  is  coming  ! "     There  was  not  a 

voice  raised  to  tell, 
Not  a  hand  moved  to  warn  from  the 

blow  ere  it  fell, 


146 


LUC1LE. 


And  then  .  .  .  then  the  blow  fell  on  both  I 

This  is  why 

1  implore  you  to  pardon  that  great  injury 
Wrought    on    her,   and,    through    her, 

wrought  on  you,  Heaven  knows 
How  unwittingly  ! 

THE  DUKE. 

Ah  !  .  .  .  and,  young  soldier,  suppose 
That  I  came  here  to  seek,  not  grant, 
pardon  ?  — 

THE  BOY. 

Of  whom  ? 

THE  DUKB. 

Of  yourself. 

THE  BOY. 
Duke,  I  bear  in  my  heart  to  the  tomb 

No  boyish  resentment ;  not  one  lonely 
thought 

That  honors  you  not.     In  all  this  there 
is  nought 

'T  is  for  me  to  forgive. 

Every  glorious  act 

Of  your  great  life  starts  forward,  an  elo- 
quent fact, 

To  confirm  in  my  boy's  heart  its  faith  in 
your  own. 

And  have  I  not  hoarded,   to    ponder 
upon, 

A  hundred  great  acts  from  your  life  ? 
Nay,  all  these, 

Were  they  so  many  lying  and  false  wit- 
nesses, 

Does  there  rest  not  one  voice,  which  was 
never  untrue  ? 

I  believe  in  Constance,   Duke,  as  she 
does  in  you  ! 

In  this  great  world  around  us,  wherever 
we  turn, 

Some  grief  irremediable  we  discern  ; 

And    yet  —  there   sits    God,    calm    in 
Heaven  above  ! 

Do  we  trust  one  whit  less  in  His  justice 
or  love  ? 

I  judge  not. 

THE  DUKE. 

Enough !  hear  at  last,  then,  the  truth. 
Your  father  and  I,  —  foes  we  were  in 

our  youth. 
It  matters  not  why.     Yet  thus  much 

understand : 

The  hope  of  my  youth  was  signed  out  by 
his  hand. 


I  was  not  of  those  whom  the  bufTets  of 

fate 
Tame  and  teach  :  and  my  heart  buried 

slain  love  in  hate. 

If  your  own  frank  young  heart,  yet  un- 
conscious of  all 
Which  turns  the  heart's  blood  in  its 

springtide  to  gall, 
And  unable  to  guess  even  aught  that 

the  furrow 
Across  these  gray  brows  hides  of  sin  or 

of  sorrow, 
Comprehends  not  the  evil  and  grief  of 

my  life, 
'T  will  at  least  comprehend  how  intense 

was  the  strife 

Which  is  closed  in  this  act  of  atone- 
ment, whereby 

I  seek  in  the  son  of  my  youth's  enemy 
The  friend  of  my  age.     Let  the  present 

release 
Here  acquitted  the  past !    In  the  name 

01  my  niece, 
Whom  for  my  life  in  yours  as  a  hostage 

I  give, 
Are  you  great  enough,  boy,  to  forgive 

me,  —  and  live  ? 

Whilst  he  spoke  thus,  a  doubtful  tu- 
multuous joy 
Chased  its  fleeting  effects  o'er  the  face 

of  the  boy  : 
As  when  some  stormy  moon,  in  a  long 

cloud  confined, 
Struggles  outward  through  shadows,  the 

varying  wind 
Alternates,   and    bursts,   self-surprised, 

from  her  prison, 
So  that  slow  joy  grew  clear  in  his  face. 

He  had  risen 
To  answer  the  Duke  ;  but  strength  failed 

every  limb ; 
A  strange,    happy  feebleness  trembled 

through  him. 
With  a  faint  cry  of  rapturous  wonder, 

he  sank 
On  the  breast  of  the  nun,  who  stood 

near. 

"Yes,  boy!  thank 
This  guardian  angel,"  the  Duke  said. 

"I  — you, 
We  owe  all  to  her.     Crown  her  work. 

Live  !  be  true 
To  your  young  life's  fair  promise,  and 

live  for  her  sake  ! " 
"Yes,  Duke  :  I  will  live.     I  must  live, 

—  live  to  make 


LUCILE. 


147 


My  whole  life  the  answer  you  claim," 

the  boy  said, 
"  For  joy  does  not  kill ! " 

Back  again  the  faint  head 
Declined   on   the  nun's  gentle   bosom. 

She  saw 
His  lips  quiver,  and  motioned  the  Duke 

to  withdraw 
And  leave  them  a  moment  together. 

He  eyed 
Them  both  with  a  wistful  regard ;  turned, 

and  sighed, 
And  lifted  the  tent-door,  and  passed  from 

the  tent. 

XXXV. 

Like  a  furnace,  the  fervid,  intense  Occi- 
dent 

From  its  hot  seething  levels  a  great  glare 
struck  up 

On  the  sick  metal  sky.  And,  as  out  of 
a  cup 

Some  witch  watches  boiling  wild  por- 
tents arise, 

Monstrous  clouds,  massed,  misshapen, 
and  tinged  with  strange  dyes, 

Hovered  over  the  red  fume,  and  changed 
to  weird  shapes 

As  of  snakes,  salamanders,  efts,  lizards, 
storks,  apes, 

Chimeras,  and  hydras  :  whilst  —  ever 
the  same  — 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  (creatures  fused 
by  his  flame, 

And  changed  by  his  influence  !)  change- 
less, as  when, 

Ere  he  lit  down  to  death  generations  of 
men, 

O'er  that  crude  and  ungainly  creation, 

which  there- 
with wild  shapes  this  cloud-world  seemed 
to  mimic  in  air, 

The  eye  of  Heaven's  all-judging  witness, 
he  shone, 

And  shall  shine  on  the  ages  we  reach 
not,  —  the  sun  ! 


XXXVI. 

Nature  posted  her  parable  thus  in  the 
skies, 

And  the  man's  heart  bore  witness.  Life's 
vapors  arise 

And  fall,  pass  and  change,  group  them- 
selves and  revolve 

Round  the  great  central  life,  which  is 
Love :  these  dissolve 


And  resume  themselves,    here    assume 

beauty,  there  terror  ; 
And  the  phantasmagoria  of  infinite  error, 
And    endless   complexity,   lasts  but   a 

while  ; 
Life's    self,    the    immortal,    immutable 

smile 
Of  God,  on  the  soul,  in  the  deep  heart 

of  Heaven 
Lives  changeless,  unchanged  :   and  our 

morning  and  even 
Are  earth's  alternations,  not  Heaven's. 


XXXVII. 

While  he  yet 
Watched  the  skies,  with  this  thought  in 

his  heart ;  while  he  set 
Thus  unconsciously  all  his  life  forth  in 

his  mind, 
Summed  it  up,  searched  it  out,  proved 

it  vapor  and  wind, 
And  embraced  the  new  life  which  that 

hour  had  revealed,  — 
Love's  life,  which  earth's  life  had  de- 
faced and  concealed  ; 
Lucile  left  the  tent  and  stood  by  him. 

Her  tread 
Aroused  him  ;  and,  turning  towards  her, 

he  said  : 
"  0  Sceur  Seraphine,  are  you  happy  ? " 

"Eugene, 
What  is  happier  than  to  have  hoped  not 

in  vain  ? " 
She  answered,  —  "And  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

"You  do  not  repent ? " 
"No." 

"  Thank   Heaven  ! "   she  murmured. 

He  musingly  bent 
His  looks  on  the  sunset,  and  somewhat 

apart 
Where  he  stood,  sighed,  as  though  ^o 

his  innermost  heart, 
"  0  blessed  are  they,  amongst  whom 

was  not, 
Whose  morning  unclouded,  without  stain 

or  spot, 
Predicts  a  pure  evening  ;  who,  sunlike, 

in  light 
Have  traversed,   unsullied,   the  world, 

and  set  bright  ! " 

But  she  in  response,  "Mark  yon  ship 

far  away, 
Asleep  on  the  wave,  in  the  last  light  of 

day, 


148 


LUCII.K. 


With  all  its  hushed  thunders  shut  up  ! 

Would  you  know 
A  thought  which  came  to  me  a  few  days 

ago. 

Whilst  watching  those  ships  ? .  .  .  When 
the  great  Ship  of  Life, 

Surviving,  though  shattered,  the  tumult 
and  strife 

Of  earth's  angry  element,  — masts  broken 
short, 

Decks  drenched,  bulwarks  beaten,  — 
drives  safe  into  port, 

When  the  Pilot  of  Galilee,  seen  on  the 
strand, 

Stretches  over  the  waters  a  welcoming 
hand ; 

When,  heeding  no  longer  the  sea's  baf- 
fled roar, 

The  mariner  turns  to  his  rest  ever- 
more ; 

What  will  then  be  the  answer  the  helms- 
man must  give  ? 

Will  it  be  ...  '  Lo  our  log-book  !  Thus 
once  did  we  live 

In  the  zones  of  the  South  ;  thus  we  trav- 
ersed the  seas 

Of  the  Orient ;  there  dwelt  with  the 
Hesperides ; 

Thence  followed  the  west-wind ;  here, 
eastward  we  turned  ; 

The  stars  failed  us  there  ;  just  here  land 
we  discerned 

On  our  lee  ;  there  the  storm  overtook  us 
at  last  ; 

That  day  went  the  bowsprit,  the  next 
day  the  mast ; 

There  the  mermen  came  round  us,  and 
there  we  saw  bask 

A  siren '  ?  The  Captain  of  Port  will  he 
ask 

Any  one  of  such  questions  ?  I  cannot 
think  so  ! 

But .  .  .  '  What  is  the  last  Bill  of  Health 
you  can  show  ? ' 

Not  —  How  fared  the  soul  through  the 
trials  she  passed? 

But  —  What  is  the  state  of  that  soul  at 
the  last?" 

"  May  it  be  so !  "  he  sighed.  "  There  ! 
the  sun  drops,  behold  !  " 

And  indeed,  whilst  he  spoke,  all  the  pur- 
ple and  gold 

In  the  west  had  turned  ashen,  save  one 
fading  strip 

Of  light  that  yet  gleamed  from  the  dark 
nether  lip 


Of  a  long  reef  of  cloud  ;  and  o'er  sullen 

ravines 
And  ridges  the  raw  damps  were  hanging 

white  screens 
Of  melancholy  mist. 

"  Nimc  dimittis  f"  she  said. 
"0  God  of  the  living  !  whilst  yet  'mid 

the  dead 
And  the  dying  we  stand  here  alive,  and 

thy  days 
Returning,  admit  space  for  prayer  and 

for  praise, 
lu  both  these  confirm  us  ! 

"  The  helmsman,  Eugene, 
Needs  the  compass  to  steer  by.     Pray 

always.     Again 
We  two  part :  each  to  work  out  Heaven's 

will :  you,  I  trust, 
In  the  world's  ample  witness  ;  and  I,  as 

I  must, 
In  secret  and  silence  :   you,  love,  fame, 

await ; 
Me,  sorrow  and  sickness.     We  meet  at 

one  gate 

When  all's  over.     The  ways  they  art- 
many  and  wide, 
And  seldom   are   two  ways  the   same. 

§ide  by  side 
May  we  stand  at  the  same  little  door 

when  all 's  done  ! 

The  ways  they  are  many,  the  end  it  is  one. 
He  that  knocketh  shall  enter  :  who  asks 

shall  obtain : 

And  who  seeketh,  he  findeth.     Remem- 
ber, Eugene ! " 
She  turned  to  depart. 

"  Whither?  whither?"  ...  he  said. 
She  stretched  forth  her  hand  where,  al- 
ready outspread 
On  the  darkened  horizon,  remotely  they 

saw 
The  French  camp-fires  kindling. 

"  0  Due  de  Luvois, 
See  yonder  vast  host,  with  its  manifold 

heart 
Made  as  one  man's  by  one  hope  !    That 

hope  't  is  your  part 
To  aid  towards  achievement,  to  save  from 

reverse  : 
Mine,  through  suffering  to  soothe,  and 

through  sickness  to  nurse. 
I  go  to  my  work  :  you  to  yours." 

XXXVII. 

Whilst  she  spoke 

On  the  wide  wasting  evening  there  dis- 
tantly broke 


LUCILE. 


149 


The  low  roll  of  musketry.  Straightway, 
anon, 

From  the  dim  Flag-staff  Battery  bel- 
lowed a  gun. 

"  Our  chasseurs  are  at  it !  "  he  muttered. 
She  turned, 

Smiled,  and  passed  up  the  twilight. 

He  faintly  discerned 

Her  form,  now  and  then,  on  the  flat 
lurid  sky 

Rise,  and  sink,  and  recede  through  the 
mists  ;  by  and  by 

The  vapors  closed  round,  and  he  saw  her 
no  more. 

xxxix. 

Nor  shall  we.  For  her  mission,  accom- 
plished, is  o'er. 

The  mission  of  genius  on  earth  !  To 
uplift, 

Purify,  and  confirm  by  its  own  gracious 

gift, 
The  world,  in  despite  of  the  world's  dull 

endeavor 
To  degrade,  and  drag  down,  and  oppose 

it  forever. 
The  mission  of  genius  :  to  watch,  and  to 

wait, 

To  renew,  to  redeem,  and  to  regenerate. 
The  mission  of  woman  on  earth  !  to  give 

birth 
To  the  mercy  of  Heaven  descending  on 

earth. 
The  mission  of  woman  :   permitted  to 

bruise 

The  head  of  the  serpent,  and  sweetly  in- 
fuse, 
Through  the  sorrow  and  sin  of  earth's 

registered  curse, 
The  blessing  which  mitigates  all :  born 

to  nurse, 
And  to  soothe,  and  to  solace,  to  help 

and  to  heal 
The  sick  world  that  leans  on  her.     This 

was  Lucile. 

XL. 

A  power  hid  in  pathos  :  a  fire  veiled  in 
cloud : 

Yet  still  burning  outward  :  a  branch 
which,  though  bowed 

By  the  bird  in  its  passage,  springs  up- 
ward again  : 

Through  all  symbols  I  search  for  her 
sweetness  —  in  vain  ! 

Judge  her  love  by  her  life.  For  our  life 
is  but  love 


In  act.     Pure  was  hers :   and  the  dear 

God  above, 
Who  knows  what   His  creatures   have 

need  of  for  life, 
And    whose    love    includes    all    loves, 

through  much  patient  strife 
Led  her  soul  into  peace.     Love,  though 

love  may  be  given 
In  vain,  is  yet  lovely.     Her  own  native 

heaven 
More    clearly    she    mirrored,    as    life's 

troubled  dream 
Wore  away ;  and  love  sighed  into  rest, 

like  a  stream 
That  breaks  its  heart  over  wild  rocks 

toward  the  shore 

Of  the  great  sea  which  hushes  it  up  ever- 
more 
With  its  little  wild  wailing.     No  stream 

from  its  source 
Flows  seaward,   how  lonely  soever  its 

course, 
But  what  some  land  is  gladdened.     No 

star  ever  rose 
And  set,  without  influence  somewhere. 

Who  knows 
What  earth  needs  from  earth's  lowest 

creature  ?    No  life 
Can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in 

its  strife 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger 

thereby. 
The  spirits  of  just  men  made  perfect  on 

high, 
The  army  of  martyrs  who  stand  by  the 

Throne 

And  gaze  into  the  Face  that  makes  glo- 
rious their  own, 
Know  this,  surely,  at  last.     Honest  love, 

honest  sorrow, 
Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope 

for  the  morrow, 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the 

hand  they  make  weary, 
The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  life 

they  leave  dreary  ? 
Hush !    the   sevenfold  heavens  to   the 

voice  of  the  Spirit 
Echo :    He    that    o'ercometh  shall    all 

things  inherit. 


The  moon  was,  in  fire,  carried  up  through 

the  fog ; 
The  loud  fortress  barked  at  her  like  & 

chained  dog. 


150  THE  APPLE  OF   LIFE. 


The  horizon  pulsed  flame,  the  air  sound. 
All  without, 

War  and  winter,  and  twilight,  and  ter- 
ror, and  doubt ; 

All  within,  light,  warmth,  calm  ! 

In  the  twilight,  long  while 


Eugene  de  Luvois  with  a  deep,  thought- 
ful sinil(! 

Lingered,  looking,  and  listening,  lone  by 
the  tent. 

At  last  he  withdrew,  and  night  closed  aa 
he  went 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

FROM  the  river  Euphrates,  the  river  whose  source  is  in  Paradise,  far 
As  red  Egypt,  —  sole  lord  of  the  land  and  the  sea,  'twixt  the  home  of  the  star 
That  is  horn  in  the  blush  of  the  East,  and  the  porch  of  the  chambers  of  rest 
Where  the  great  sea  is  girded  with  fire,  and  Orion  returns  in  the  West, 
And  the  ships  come  and  go  in  grand  silence,  —  King  Solomon  reigned.     And  behold, 
In  that  time  there  was  everywhere  silver  as  common  as  stones  be,  and  gold 
That  for  plenty  was  'counted  as  silver,  and  cedar  as  sycamore-trees 
That  are  found  in  the  vale,  for  abundance.     For  GOD  to  the  King  gave  all  these, 
With  glory  exceeding  ;  moreover  all  kings  of  the  earth  to  him  came, 
Because  of  his  wisdom,  to  hear  him.     So  great  was  King  Solomon's  fame. 

And  for  all  this  the  King's  soul  was  sad.     And  his  heart  said  within  him,  "All* 
For  man  dies  !  if  his  glory  abideth,  himself  from  his  glory  shall  pass. 
And  that  which  remaineth  behind  him,  he  seeth  it  not  any  more : 
For  how  shall  he  know  what  comes  after,  who  knoweth  not  what  went  before  ? 
I  have  planted  me  gardens  and  vineyards,  and  gotten  me  silver  and  gold, 
And  my  hand  from  whatever  my  heart  hath  desired  I  did  not  withhold  : 
And  what  profit  have  I  in  the  works  of  my  hands  which  I  take  not  away  ? 
I  have  searched  out  wisdom  and  knowledge  :  and  what  do  they  profit  me,  they? 
As  the  fool  dieth,  so  doth  the  wise.     What  is  gathered  is  scattered  again. 
As  the  breath  of  the  beasts,  even  so  is  the  breath  of  the  children  of  men  : 
And  the  same  .thing  befalleth  them  both.    And  not  any  man's  soul  is  his  own." 

This  he  thought,  as  he  sat  in  his  garden  and  watched  the  great  sun  going  dowir 
In  the  glory  thereof ;  and  the  earth  and  the  sky  by  the  beam  of  the  same 
Were  clothed  with  the  gladness  of  color,  and  bathed  in  the  beauty  of  flame. 
And  "  Behold,"  said  the  King,  "  in  a  moment  the  glory  shall  vanish  !  "     Even  then. 
While  he  spake,  he  was  'ware  of  a  man  drawing  near  him,  who  seemed  to  his  ken 
(By  the  hair  in  its  blackness  like  flax  that  is  burned  in  the  hemp-dresser's  shed, 
And  the  brow's  smoky  hue,  and  the  smouldering  eyeball  more  livid  than  lead) 
As  the  sons  of  the  land  that  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub  whose  wing 
Wraps  in  wrath  the  shut  gateways  of  Paradise.     He,  being  come  to  the  King, 
Seven  times  made  obeisance  before  him.     To  whom,  "  What  art  thou,"  the  King 

cried, 

"  That  thus  unannounced  to  King  Solomon  comest  ? "     The  man,  spreading  wide 
The  palm  of  his  right  hand,  showed  in  it  an  apple  yet  bright  from  the  Tree 
In  whose  stem  springs  the  life  never-failing  which  Sin  lost  to  Adam,  when  he, 
Tasting  knowledge  forbidden,  found  death  in  the  fruit  of  it.  ...  So  doth  the  Giver 
Evil  gifts  to  the  evil  apportion.     And  "  Hail  !  let  the  King  live  forever  ! " 
Bowing  down  at  the  feet  of  the  monarch,  arid  laughingly,  even  as  one 
Whose  meaning,  in  joy  or  in  jest,  hovers  hid  'twixt  the  word  and  the  ton«, 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  151 

Raid  the  stranger,  "  For  lo  ye  "  (and  lightly  he  dropped  in  the  hand  of  the  King 

That  apple),  "  from  'twixt  the  four  rivers  of  Eden,  Gor>  gave  me  to  bring 

To  his  servant  King  Solomon,  even  to  my  lord  that  on  Israel's  throne 

He  hath  'stablisht,  this  fruit  from  the  Tree  in  whose  branch  Life  abideth  :  for  none 

Shall  taste  death,  having  tasted  this  apple." 

And  therewith  he  vanished. 

Remained 

In  the  hand  of  the  King  the  life-apple  :  ambrosial  of  breath,  golden-grained, 
Rosy-bright  as  a  star  dipt  in  sunset.  The  King  turned  it  o'er,  and  perused 
The  fruit,  which,  alluring  his  lip,  in  his  hand  lay  untasted. 

He  mused, 

"  Life  is  good  :  but  not  life  in  itself.     Life  eternal,  eternally  young, 
That  were  life  to  be  lived,  or  desired  !     Well  it  were  if  a  man  could  prolong 
The  manhood  that  moves  in  the  muscles,  the  rapture  that  mounts  in  the  brain 
"When  life  at  the  prime,  in  the  pastime  of  living,  led  on  by  the  train 
Of  the  jubilant  senses,  exulting  goes  forth,  brave  of  body  and  spirit,  _ 
To  conquer,  choose,  claim,  and  enjoy  what 't  was  born  to  achieve  or  inherit. 
The  dance,  and  the  festal  procession  !  the  pride  in  the  strenuous  play 
Of  the  sinews  that,  pliant  of  power,  the  will,  though  it  wanton,  obey ! 
When  the  veins  are  yet  wishful,  and  in  them  the  bountiful  impulses  beat, 
When  the  lilies  of  Love  are  yet  living,  the  roses  of  Beauty  yet  sweet : 
And  the  eye  glows  with  glances  that  kindle,  the  lip  breathes  the  warmth  that  inspires, 
And  the  hand  hath  yet  vigor  to  seize  the  good  thing  which  the  spirit  desires  ! 
0  well  for  the  foot  that  bounds  forward  !  and  ever  the  wind  it  awakes 
Lifts  no  lock  from  the  forehead  yet  white,  not  a  leaf  that  is  withered  yet  shakes 
From  the  loose  crown  that  laughs  on  young  tresses  !  and  ever  the  earth  and  the  skies 
Are  crammed  with  audacious  contingencies,  measureless  means  of  surprise  ! 
Life  is  sweet  to  the  young  that  yet  know  not  what  life  is.     But  life,  after  Youth, 
The  gay  liar,  leaves  hold  of  the  bauble,  and  Age,  with  his  terrible  truth, 
Picks  it  up,  and  perceives  it  is  broken,  and  knows  it  unfit  to  engage 
The  care  it  yet  craves.  .  .  .  Life  eternal,  eternally  wedded  to  Age  ! 
What  gain  were  in  that  ?     Why  should  any  man  seek  what  he  loathes  to  prolong  ? 
The  twilight  that  darkens  the  eyeball :  the  dull  ear  that 's  deaf  to  the  song, 
When  the  maidens  rejoice  and  the  bride  to  the  bridegroom,  with  music,  is  led : 
The  palsy  that  shakes  'neath  the  blossoms  that  fall  from  the  chill  bridal  bed. 
When  the   hand  saith  'I did,'  not  '  I  will  do,'    the  heart   saith    ' It  was,'  not 

"Twill  be,' 

Too  late  in  man's  life  is  Forever,  —  too  late  comes  this  apple  to  me  !  " 
Then  the  King  rose.     And  lo,  it  was  evening.     And  leaning,  because  he  was  old, 
On  the  sceptre  that,  curiously  sculptured  in  ivory  garnished  with  gold, 
To  others  a  rod  of  dominion,  to  him  was  a  staff  for  support, 
Slow  paced  he  the  murmurous  pathways  where  myrtles,  in  court  up  to  court, 
Mixt  with  roses  in  garden  on  garden,  were  ranged  around  fountains  that  fed 
With  cool  music  green  odorous  twilights  :  and  so,  never  lifting  his  head 
To  look  up  from  the  way  he  walked  wearily,  he  to  the  House  of  his  Pride 
Reascended,  and  entered. 

In  cluster,  high  lamps,  spices,  odors,  each  side, 

Burning  inward  and  onward,  from  cinnamon  ceilings,  down  distances  vast 
Of  voluptuous  vistas,  illumined  deep  halls  through  whose  silentness  passed 
King  Solomon  sighing  ;  where  columns  colossal  stood,  gathered  in  groves 
As  the  trees  of  the  forest  in  Libanus,  —  there  where  the  wind,  as  it  moves, 
Whispers,  "  I,  too,  am  Solomon's  servant !  "  —  huge  trunks  hid  in  garlands  of  gold, 
On  whose  tops  the  skilled  sculptors  of  Sidon  had  granted  men's  gaze  to  behold 
How  the  phoenix  that  sits  on  the  cedar's  lone  summit  'mid  fragrance  and  fire, 
Ever  dying,  and  living,  hath  loaded  with  splendors  her  funeral  pyre  ; 


152  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

How  the  stork  builds  her  nest  on  the  pine-top  ;  the  date  from  the  palm-branch 

depends  ; 

And  the  aloe's  great  blossom  bursts,  crowning  with  beauty  the  life  that  it  ends. 
A inl  from  hall  on  to  hull,  in  the  doors,  mutt',  magnificent  .slaves,  watchful-eyed, 
Bowed  to  earth  as  King  Solomon  passed  them.  And,  passing,  King  Solomon 

sighed. 

And,  from  hall  on  to  hall  pacing  feebly,  the  king  mused  ...  "0  fair  ShulamiU-  : 
Thy  beauty  is  brighter  than  starlight  on  Hebron  when  Hebron  is  bright, 
Thy  sweetness  is  sweeter  than  Carmel.     The  King  rules  the  nations  ;  but  thou, 
Thou  rulest  the  King,  my  Beloved." 

So  murmured  King  Solomon  low 

To  himself,  as  he  passed  through  the  portal  of  porphyry,  that  dripped,  as  he  passed, 
From  the  myrrh-sprinkled  wreaths  on  the  locks  and  the  lintels  ;  and  entered  at  last, 
Still  sighing,  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  contrived  for  repose  and  delight, 
Where  the  beautiful  Shulamite  slumbered.     And  straightway,  to  left  and  to  right, 
Bowing  down  as  he  entered,  the  Spirits  in  bondage  to  Solomon,  there 
Keeping  watch  o'er  his  love,  sank  their  swords,  spread  their  wings,  and  evanished 

in  air. 

The  King  with  a  kiss  woke  the  sleeper.     And,  showing  the  fruit  in  his  hand, 
"Behold  !  this  was  brought  me  erewhile  by  one  coming,"  he  said,  "from  the  land 
That  lies  under  the  sword  of  the  Cherub.     'T  was  pluckt  by  strange  hands  from 

the  Tree 

Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.     And  therefore  I  bring  it  to  thee, 
My  Beloved.     For  thou  of  the  daughters  of  women  art  fairest.     And  lo, 
I,  the  King,  I  that  love  thee,  whom  men  of  man's  sons  have  called  wisest,  I  know 
That  in  knowledge  is  sorrow.    Much  thought  is  much  care.    In  the  beauty  of  youth, 
Not  the  wisdom  of  age,  is  enjoyment.     Nor  spring,  is  it  sweeter,  in  truth, 
Than  winter  to  roses  once  withered.     The  garment,  though  broidered  with  gold, 
Fades  apace  where  the  moth  frets  the  fibres.     So  I,  in  my  glory,  grow  old. 
And  this  life  maketh  mine  (save  the  bliss  of  my  soul  in  the  beauty  of  thee) 
No  sweetness  so  great  now  that  greatly  unsweet  't  were  to  lose  what  to  me 
Life  prolonged,  at  its  utmost,  can  promise.     But  thine,  0  thou  spirit  of  bliss, 
Thine  is  all  that  the  living  desire,  —  youth,  beauty,  love,  joy  in  all  this  ! 
And  0  were  it  not  well  for  the  praise  of  the  world  to  maintain  evermore 
This  mould  of  a  woman,  God's  masterwork,  made  for  mankind  to  adore  ? 
Wherefore  keep  thou  the  gift  I  resign.     Live  forever,  rejoicing  in  life  ! 
And  of  women  unborn  yet  the  fairest  shall  still  be  King  Solomon's  wife." 
So  he  said,  and  so  dropped  in  her  bosom  the  apple. 

But  when  he  was  gone, 

And  the  beautiful  Shulamite,  eying  the  gift  of  the  King,  sat  alone 
With  the  thoughts  the  King's  words  had  awakened,  as  ever  she  turned  and  perused 
The  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untested  —  she  mused, 
"  Life  is  good  ;  but  not  life  in  itself.     So  is  youth,  so  is  beauty.     Mere  stuff 
Are  all  these  for  Love's  usance.     To  live,  it  is  well ;  but  it  is  not  enough. 
Well,  too,  to  be  fair,  to  be  young  ;  but  what  good  is  in  beauty  and  youth 
If  the  lovely  and  young  are  not  surer  than  they  that  be  neither,  forsooth, 
Young  nor  lovely,  of  being  beloved  ?    0  my  love,  if  thou  lovest  net  me, 
Shall  I  love  my  own  life  ?    Am  I  fair,  if  not  fair,  Azariah,  to  thee." 
Then  she  hid  in  her  bosom  the  apple.     And  rose. 

And,  reversing  the  ring 
That,  inscribed  with  the  word  that  works  wonders,  and  signed  with  the  seal  of  the 

King, 

Compels  even  spirits  to  obedience  —  (for  she,  for  a  plaything,  erewhile 
From  King  Solomon's  awful  forefinger,  had  won  it  away  with  a  smile)  — 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  153 

The  beautiful  Shulamite  folded  her  veil  o'er  her  forehead  and  eyes, 

And  unseen  from  the  sweet  cedarn  chamber,  unseen  through  the  long  galleries, 

Unseen  from  the  palace,  she  passed,  and  passed  down  to  the  city  unseen, 

Unseen  passed  the  green  garden  wicket,  the  vineyard,  the  cypresses  green, 

And  stood  by  the  doors  of  the  house  of  the  Prince  Azariah.     And  cried, 

In  the  darkness  she  cried,  —  "Azariah,  awaken  !  ope,  ope  to  me  wide  ! 

Ope  the  door,  ope  the  lattice  !     Arise  !     Let  me  in,  0  my  love  !     It  is  I. 

I,  the  bride  of  King  Solomon,  love  thee.     Love,  tarry  not.     Love,  shall  I  die 

At  thy  doors  ?     I  am  sick  of  desire.     For  my  love  is  more  comely  than  gold. 

More  precious  to  me  is  my  love  than  the  throne  of  a  king  that  is  old. 

Behold,  I  have  passed  through  the  city,  unseen  of  the  watchmen.     I  stand 

By  the  doors  of  the  house  of  my  love,  till  my  love  lead  me  in  by  the  hand." 

Azariah  arose.     And  unbolted  the  door  to  the  fair  Shulamite. 

"0  my  queen,  what  dear  folly  is  this,  that  hath  led  thee  alone,  and  by  night, 

To  the  house  of  King  Solomon's  servant  ?     For  lo  you,  the  watchmen  awake. 

And  much  for  my  own,  0  my  queen,  must  I  fear,  and  much  more  for  thy  sake. 

For  at  that  which  is  done  in  the  chamber  the  leek  on  the  house-top  shall  peep  : 

And  the  hand  of  a  king  it  is  heavy  :  the  eyes  of  a  king  never  sleep  : 

But  the  bird  of  the  air  beareth  news  to  the  king,  and  the  stars  of  the  sky 

Are  as  soldiers  by  night  on  the  turrets.     I  fear,  0  my  queen,  lest  we  die." 

"  Fear  thou  not,  0  my  love  !     Azariah,  fear  nothing.     For  lo,  what  I  bring  ! 

'T  is  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  that  in  Paradise  GOD  hideth  under  the  wing 

Of  the  Cherub  that  chased  away  Adam.     And  whoso  this  apple  doth  eat 

Shall  live  — live  forever  !     And  since  unto  me  my  own  life  is  less  sweet 

Thai*,  thy  love,  Azariah,  (sweet  only  my  life  is  if  thou  lovest  me  ! ) 

Therefore  eat  !     Live,  and  love,  for  life's  sake,  still,  the  love  that  gives  life  unto 

thee  !  " 
Then  she  held  to  his  lips  the  life-apple,  and  kissed  him. 

But  soon  as  alone, 

Azariah  leaned  out  from  his  lattice,  he  muttered,  "  'T  is  well  !     She  is  gone." 
While  the  fruit  in  his  hand  lay  untasted.     "Such  visits,"  he  mused,  "may  cost 

dear. 

In  the  love  of  the  great  is  great  danger,  much  trouble,  and  care  more  than  cheer." 
Then  he  laughed  and  stretched  forth  his  strong  arms.     For  he  heard  from  the 

streets  of  the  city 

The  song  of  the  women  that  sing  in  the  doors  after  dark  their  love  ditty. 
And  the  clink  of  the  wine-cup,  the  voice  of  the  wanton,  the  tripping  of  feet, 
And  the  laughter  of  youths  running  after,  allured  him.     And  "  Life,  it  is  sweet 
While  it  lasts,"  sang  the  women,  "  and  sweeter  the  good  minute,  in  that  it  goes. 
For  who,  if  the  rose  bloomed  forever,  so  greatly  would  care  for  the  rose? 
Wherefore  haste  !  pluck  the  time  in  the  blossom."     The  prince  mused,  "  The  coun- 
sel is  well." 

And  the  fruit  to  his  lips  he  uplifted  :  yet  paused.     "  Who  is  he  that  can  tell 
What  his  days  shall  bring  forth  ?     Life  forever  .  .  .  But  what  sort  of  life  ?    Ah, 

the  doubt !  " 

'Neath  his  cloak  then  he  thrust  back  the  apple.    And  opened  the  door  and  passed  out 
To  the  house  of  the  harlot  Egyptian.     And  mused,  as  he  went,  "  Life  is  good  : 
But  not  life  in  itself.     It  is. well  while  the  wine-cup  is  hot  in  the  blood, 
And  a  man  goeth  whither  he  listeth,  and  doeth  the  thing  that  he  will, 
And  liveth  his  life  as  he  lusteth,  and  taketh  in  freedom  his  fill 
Of  the  pleasure  that  pleaseth  his  humor,  and  feareth  no  snare  by  the  way. 
Shall  I  care  to  be  loved  by  a  queen,  if  my  pride  with  my  freedom  I  pay  ? 
Better  far  is  a  handful  in  quiet  than  both  hands,  though  filled  to  o'erflow 
With  pride,  in  vexation  of  spirit.     And  sweeter  the  roses  that  blow 
From  the  wild  seeds  the  wind,  where  he  wanders,  with  heedless  beneficence  flings, 
Than  those  that  are  guarded  by  dragons  to  brighten  the  gardens  of  kings. 


154  THE  APPLE  OF   LIFE. 

Let  a  man  take  hts  chance,  and  be  happy.     The  hart  by  the  hunter  pursued, 
That  far  from  the  herd  on  the  hill-top  hounds  swift  through  the  blue  solitude, 
Is  more  to  be  envied,  though  Death  with  his  dart  follow  t'u.-t  to  destroy, 
Than  the  tame  Insist  that,  pent  in  the  paddock,  tastes  neither  the  danger  nor  joy 
Of  the  mountain,  and  all  its  surprises.     The  main  tiling  is,  not  to  live  long, 
But  to  live.     Better  moments  of  rapture  soon  ended  than  ages  of  wrong. 
Life's  feast  is  best  spiced  by  the  flavor  of  death  in  it.     Just  the  one  chance 
To  lose  it  to-morrow  the  life  that  a  man  lives  to-day  doth  enhance. 
The  may-be  for  me,  not  the  must-be  !     Best  flourish  while  flourish  the  flowers, 
And  fall  i;re  the  frost  falls.     The  dead,  do  they  rest  or  arise  with  new  powers  ? 


For  a  man  cannot  feed  and  be  full  on  the  faith  of  to-morrow's  baked  meat. 
Open  !  open,  my  dark-eyed  beguiler  of  darkness  ! " 

Up  rose  to  his  knock, 

Light  of  foot,  the  lascivious  Egyptian,  and  lifted  the  latch  from  the  lock, 
And  opened.     And  led  in  the  prince  to  her  chamber,  and  shook  out  her  hair, 
Dark,  heavy,  and  humid  with  odors  ;  her  bosom  beneath  it  laid  bare, 
And  sleek  sallow  shoulder  ;  and  sloped  back  her  face,  as,  when  falls  the  slant  South 
In  wet  whispers  of  rain,  flowers  bend  back  to  catch  it  ;  so  she,  with  shut  mouth 
Half-unfolding  for  kisses  ;  and  sank,  as  they  fell,  'twixt  his  knees,  with  a  laugh, 
On  the  floor,  m  a  flood  of  deep  hair  flung  behind  her  full  throat ;  held  him  half 
Aloof  with  one  large,  languid  arm,  while  the  other  uppropped,  where  she  lay, 
Limbs  flowing  in  fulness  and  lucid  in  surface  as  waters  at  play, 
Though  in  firmness  as  slippery  marble.     Anon  she  sprang  loose  from  his  clasp, 
And  whirled  from  the  table  a  flagon  of  silver  twined  round  by  an  asp 
That  glittered,  —  rough  gold  and  red  rubies  ;  and  poured  him,  and  praised  him, 

the  wine 
Wherewith  she  first  brightened  the  moist  lip  that  murmured,   "  Ha,  fool  !  art 

thou  mine  ? 

I  am  thine.     This  will  last  for  an  hour."     Then,  humming  strange  words  of  a  song, 
Sung  by  maidens  in  Memphis  the  old,  when  they  bore  the  Crowned  Image  along, 
Apples  yellow  and  red  from  a  basket  with  vine-leaves  o'erlaid  she  'gan  take, 
And  played  with,  peeled,  tost  them,  andcaught  them,  and  bit  them,  foridleness'  sake ; 
But  the  rinds  on  the  floor  she  flung  from  her,  and  laughed  at  the  figures  they  made, 
As  her  foot  pusht  them  this  way  and  that  way  together.     And  "Look,  fool," 

she  said, 

"  It  is  all  sour  fruit,  this  !     But  those  I  fling  from  me,  —  see  here  by  the  stain  !  — 
Shall  cany  the  mark  of  my  teeth  in  their  flesh.     Could  they  feel  but  the  pain, 
0  my  soul,  how  these  teeth  should  go  through  them  !     Fool,  fool,  what  good  gift 

dost  thou  bring  ? 

For  thee  have  I  sweetened  with  cassia  my  chambers."     "  A  gift  for  a  king," 
Azariah  laughed  loud  ;  and  tost  to  her  the  apple.     "This  comes  from  the  Tree 
Of  whose  fruit  whoso  tastes  lives  forever.     I  care  not.     I  give  it  to  thee. 
Nay,  witch  !  't  is  worth  more  than  the  shekels  of  gold  thou  hast  charmed  from 

my  purse. 
Take  it.     Eat,  and  thank  me  for  the  meal,  witch  !  for  Eve,  thy  sly  mother, 

fared  worse, 

Othou  white-toothed  taster  of  apples?"  "Thouliest,  fool!"  "  Taste,  then,  and  try. 
For  the  truth  of  the  fruit 's  in  the  eating.     'T  is  thou  art  the  ser]x>nt,  not  I." 
And  the  strong  man  laughed  loud  as  he  pushed  at  her  lip  the  life-apple.     She  caught 
And  held  it  away  from  her,  musing  ;  and  muttered  ..."  Go  to  !     It  is  naught. 
Fool,  why  dost  thou  laugh  ? "     And  he  answered,  "  Because,  witch,  it  tickles  my 

brain 
Intensely  to  think  that  all  we,  that  be  Something  while  yet  we  remain, 


'AND,  KNEELING    THERE,    CRIED,    'LET   THE    KING    LIVE    FOREVER  !  '  "  —  Page  155. 


THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE.  155 

We,  the  princes  of  people,  —  ay,  even  the  King's  self,  —  shall  die  in  our  day, 
And  thou,  that  art  Nothing,  shalt  sit  on  our  graves,  with  our  grandsons,  and  play." 
So  he  said,  and  laughed  louder. 

But  when,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn,  he  was  gone, 

And  the  wan  light  waxed  large  in  the  window,  as  she  on  her  bed  sat  alone, 
With  the  fruit  that,  alluring  her  lip,  in  her  hand  lay  untasted,  perusing, 
Perplext,  the  gay  gift  of  the  Prince,  the  dark  woman  thereat  fell  a  musing, 
And  she  thought ..."  What  is  Life  without  Honor  ?    And  what  can  the  life  that 

I  live 

Give  to  me,  I  shall  care  to  continue,  not  caring  for  aught  it  can  give  ? 
I,  despising  the  fools  that  despise  me,  —  a  plaything  not  pleasing  myself,  — 
Whose  life,  for  the  pelf  that  maintains  it,  must  sell  what  is  paid  not  by  pelf ! 
1  ? ...  the  man  called  me  Nothing.     He  said  well.     '  The  great  in  their  glory 

must  go. ' 

And  why  should  I  linger,  whose  life  leadeth  nowhere  ?  —  a  life  which  I  know 
To  name  is  to  shame  —  struck,  unsexed,  by  the  world  from  its  list  of  the  lives 
Of  the  women  whose  womanhood,  saved,  gets  them  leave  to  be  mothers  and  wives. 
And  the  fancies  of  men  change.     And  bitterly  bought  is  the  bread  that  I  eat ; 
For,  though  purchased  with  body  and  spirit,  when  purchased  't  is  yet  all  unsweet." 
Her  tears  fell:   they  fell  on  the  apple.     She  sighed  .  .  .   "Sour  fruit,  like  the 

rest ! 

Let  it  go  with  the  salt  tears  upon  it.     Yet  life  ...  it  were  sweet  if  possessed 
In  the  power  thereof,  and  the  beauty.     '  A  gift  for  a  king'  .  .  .  did  he  say  ? 
Ay,  a  king's  life  is  a  life  as  it  should  be,  —  a  life  like  the  light  of  the  day, 
Wherein  all  that  liveth  rejoiceth.     For  is  not  the  King  as  the  sun 
That  shineth  in  heaven  and  seemeth  both  heaven  and  itself  all  in  one  ? 
Then  to  whom  may  this  fruit,  the  life-giver,  be  worthily  given  ?    Not  me. 
Nor  the  fool  Azariah  that  sold  it  for  folly.     The  King  !  only  he,  — 
Only  he  hath  the  life  that 's  worth  living  forever.     Whose  life,  not  alone 
Is  the  life  of  the  King,  but  the  life  of  the  many  made  mighty  in  one. 
To  the  King  will  I  carry  this  apple.     And  he  (for  the  hand  of  a  king 
Is  a  fountain  of  hope)  in  his  handmaid  shall  honor  the  gift  that  I  bring. 
And  men  for  this  deed  shall  esteem  me,  with  Rahab  by  Israel  praised, 
As  first  among  those  who,  though  lowly,  their  shame  into  honor  have  raised  : 
Such  honor  as  lasts  when  life  goes,  and,  while  life  lasts,  shall  lift  it  above 
What,  if  loved  by  the  many  I  loathe,  must  be  loathed  by  the  few  I  could  love." 

So  she  rose,  and  went  forth  through  the  city.     And  with  her  the  apple  she  bore 
In  her  bosom  :  and  stood  'mid  the  multitude,  waiting  therewith  in  the  door 
Of  the  hall  where  the  King,  to  give  judgment,  ascended  at  morning  his  throne  : 
And,  kneeling  there,  cried,  "  Let  the  King  live  forever  !     Behold,  I  am  one 
Whom  the  vile  of  themselves  count  the  vilest.     But  great  is  the  grace  of  my  lord. 
And  now  let  my  lord  on  his  handmaid  look  down,  and  give  ear  to  her  word." 
Thereat,  in  the  witness  of  all,  she  drew  forth,  and  (uplifting  her  head) 
Showed  the  Apple  of  Life,  which  who  tastes,  tastes  not  death.     "  And  this  apple," 

she  said, 

; '  Last  night  was  delivered  to  me,  that  thy  servant  should  eat,  and  not  die. 
But  I  said  to  the  soul  of  thy  servant,  '  Not  so.     For  behold,  what  am  I  ? 
That  the  King,  in  his  glory  and  gladness,  should  cease  from  the  light  of  the  sun, 
Whiles  I,  that  am  least  of  his  slaves,  in  my  shame  and  abasement  live  on.' 
For  not  sweet  is  the  life  of  thy  servant,  unless  to  thy  servant  my  lord 
Stretch  his  hand,  and  show  favor.     For  surely  the  frown  of  a  king  is  a  sword, 
But  the  smile  of  the  King  is  as  honey  that  flows  from  the  clefts  of  the  rock, 
And  his  grace  is  as  dew  that  from  Horeb  descends  on  the  heads  of  the  flock  ; 
In  the  King  is  the  heart  of  a  host :  the  King's  strength  is  an  army  of  men  \ 
And  the  wrath  of  the  King  is  a  lion  that  roareth  by  night  from  his  den  ; 


156  THE  APPLE  OF  LIFE. 

But  as  grapes  from  the  vines  of  En-Gedi  are  favors  that  fall  from  his  hands, 
And  as  towers  on  the  hill-tops  of  Slienir  the  throne  of  King  Solomon  stands. 
And  for  this,  it  were  well  that  forever  the  King,  who  is  many  in  one, 
Should  sit,  to  lie  seen  through  all  time,  on  a  throne  "twixt  the  moon  and  the  sun  ! 
For  how  shall  one  lose  what  he  hath  not  ?    Who  hath,  let  him  keep  what  he  hath. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  King  give  this  apple." 

Then  great  was  King  Solomon's  wrath. 
And  he  rose,  rent  his  garment,  and  cried,  "Woman,  whence  came  this  apple  to 

thee  ? " 

But  when  he  was  'ware  of  the  truth,  then  his  heart  was  awakened.     And  he 
Knew  at  once  that  the  man  who,  erewhile,  unawares  coming  to  him,  had  brought 
That  Apple  of  Life  was,  indeed,  GOD'S  good  Angel  of  Death.     And  he  thought 
"  In  mercy,  I  doubt  not,  when  man's  eyes  were  opened,  and  made  to  see  plain 
All  the  wrong  in  himself,  and  the  wretchedness,  GOD  sent  to  close  them  again 
For  man's  sake,  his  last  friend  upon  earth  —  Death,  the  servant  of  GOD,  who  is  just. 
Let  man's  spirit  to  Him  whence  it  cometh  return,  and  his  dust  to  the  dust ! " 

Then  the  Apple  of  Life  did  King  Solomon  seal  in  an  urn  that  was  signed 
With  the  seal  of  Oblivion  :  and  summoned  the  Spirits  that  walk  in  the  wind 
Unseen  on  the  summits  of  mountains,  where  never  the  eagle  yet  flew  ; 
And  these  he  commanded  to  bear  far  away,  —  out  of  reach,  out  of  view, 
Out  of  hope,  out  of  memory,  —  higher  than  Ararat  buildeth  nis  throne, 
In  the  Urn  of  Oblivion  the  Apple  of  Life. 

But  on  green  jasper-stone 

Did  the  King  write  the  story  thereof  for  instruction.     And  Enoch,  the  seer, 
Coming  afterward,  searched  out  the  meaning.     And  he  that  hath  ears,  let  him  hear. 


THE   WANDERER. 


TO    J.    F. 


As,  in  the  laurel's  murmurous  leaves 

'T  was  fabled,  once,  a  Virgin  dwelt ; 
Within  the  poet's  page  yet  heaves 
The  poet's  Heart,  and  loves  or  grieves 
Or  triumphs,  as  it  felt. 

A  human  spirit  here  records 

The  annals  of  its  human  strife. 
A  human  hand  hath  touched  these  chords. 
These  songs  may  all  be  idle  words  : 
And  yet  — they  once  were  life. 

I  gave  my  harp  to  Memory. 

She  sung  of  hope,  when  hope  was  young, 
Of  youth,  as  youth  no  more  may  be  ; 
And,  since  she  sung  of  youth,  to  thee, 
Friend  of  my  youth,  she  sung. 

For  all  youth  seeks,  all  manhood  needs, 

All  youth  and  manhood  rarely  find  : 
A  strength  more  strong  than  codes  or  creeds, 
In  lofty  thoughts  and  lovely  deeds 
Revealed  to  heart  and  mind  ; 

A  staff  to  stay,  a  star  to  guide  ; 

A  spell  to  soothe,  a  power  to  raise  ; 
A  faith  by  fortune  firmly  tried  ; 
A  judgment  resolute  to  preside 
O'er  days  at  strife  with  days. 

0  large  in  lore,  in  nature  soiind! 

0  man  to  me,  of  all  men,  dear  ! 
All  these  in  thine  my  life  hath  found, 
And  force  to  tread  the  rugged  ground 
Of  daily  toil,  with  cheer. 

Accept  —  not  these,  the  broken  cries 

Of  days  receding  far  from  me  — 
But  all  the  love  that  in  them  lies, 
The  man's  heart  in  the  melodies, 
The  man's  heart  honoring  thee  ! 

Sighing  I  sung  ;  for  some  sublime 

Emotion  made  my  music  jar  : 

The  forehead  of  this  restless  time 

Pales  in  a  fervid,  passionate  clime, 

Lit  by  a  changeful  star  ; 

And  o'er  the  Age's  threshold,  traced 
In  characters  of  hectic  fire, 


The  name  of  that  keen,  fervent-faced 
And  toiling  seraph,  hath  been  placed, 
Which  men  have  called  Desire. 

But  thou  art  strong  where,  even  of  old, 

The  old  heroic  strength  was  rare, 
In  high  emotions  self-controlled, 
And  insight  keen,  but  never  cold, 
To  lay  all  falsehood  bare ; 

Despising  all  those  glittering  lies 

Which  in  these  days  can  fool  mankind ; 
But  full  of  noble  sympathies 
For  what  is  genuinely  wise, 
And  beautiful,  and  kind. 

And  thou  wilt  pardon  all  the  much 

Of  weakness  which  doth  here  abound, 
Till  music,  little  prized  as  such, 
With  thee  find  worth  from  one  true  touch 
Of  nature  in  its  sound. 

Though  mighty  spirits  are  no  more, 
Yet  spirits  of  beauty  still  remain. 
Gone  is  the  Seer  that,  by  the  shore 
Of  lakes  as  limpid  as  his  lore, 
Lived  to  one  ceaseless  strain 

And  strenuous  melody  of  mind. 

But  one  there  rests  that  hath  the  power 
To  charm  the  midnight  moon,  and  bind 
All  spirits  of  the  sweet  south -wind, 
And  steal  from  every  shower 

That  sweeps  green  England  cool  and  clear, 

The  violet  of  tender  song. 
Great  Alfred  !  long  may  England's  ear 
His  music  fill,  his  name  be  dear 
To  English  bosoms  long  ! 

And  one  ...  in  sacred  silence  sheathed 

That  name  I  keep,  my  verse  would  shame. 
The  name  my  lips  in  prayer  first  breathed 
Was  his  :  and  prayer  hath  yet  bequeathed 
Its  silence  to  that  name  ;  — 

Which  yet  an  age  remote  shall  hear, 

Borne  on  the  fourfold  wind  sublime 
By  Fame,  where,  with  some  faded  year 
These  songs  shall  sink,  like  leaflets  sere, 
In  avenues  of  Time. 


158 


THE  WANDERER. 


Love  on  my  harp  his  finger  lays  ; 

His  hand  is  held  against  the  chords. 
My  heart  upon  the  music  weighs, 
And,  beating,  hushes  foolish  praise 
From  desultory  words : 

And  Childhood  steals,  with  wistful  grace, 

"I'wixt  him  and  me  ;  an  infant  hand 
( 'hides  gently  back  the  thoughts  that  chase 
The  forward  "hour,  and  turns  my  face 
To  that  remembered  land 

Of  legend,  and  the  Summer  sky, 

And  all  the  wild  Welsh  waterfalls, 
And  haunts  where  he,  and  thou,  and  I 
Once  wandered  with  the  wandering  Wye, 
And  scaled  the  airy  walls 

Of  Chepstow,  from  whose  ancient  height 

We  watched  the  liberal  sun  go  down  ; 

Then  onward,  through  the  gradual  night, 

Till,  ere  the  moon  was  fully  bright, 

We  supped  in  Monmouth  Town. 

And  though,  dear  friend,  thy  love  retains 

The  choicest  sons  of  song  in  fee, 
To  thee  not  less  I  pour  these  strains, 
Knowing  that  in  thy  heart  remains 
A  little  place  for  me. 

FLOKEHCE,  September  24, 1857. 


Nor  wilt  thou  all  forget  the  time 

Though  it  be  past,  in  which  together, 
On  many  an  eve,  witli  many  a  rhyme 
Of  old  and  modern  hards  sublime 
We  soothed  the  summer  weather : 

And,  riting  all  he  said  or  sung 

With  praise  reserved  for  bards  like  him, 
Spake  of  that  friend  who  dwells  among 
The  Apennine,  and  there  hath  strung 
A  harp  of  Anakhn  ; 

Than  whom  a  mightier  master  never 

Touched  the  deep  chords  of  hidden  things ; 
Nor  error  did  from  truth  dissever 
With  keener  glance  ;  nor  made  endeavor 
To  rise  on  bolder  wings 

In  those  high  regions  of  the  soul 

Where  thought  itself  grows  dim  with  awe. 
But  now  the  star  of  eve  hath  stole 
Through  the  deep  sunset,  and  the  whole 
Of  heaven  begins  to  draw 

The  darkness  round  me,  and  the  dew. 

And  my  pale  Muse  doth  fold  her  eyes. 
Adieu,  my  friend  ;  my  guide,  adieu! 
May  never  night,  'twixt  me  and  you, 
With  thoughts  less  fond  arise  ! 

THE  AUTHOR 


PKOLOGUE. 


PART  I. 

SWEET  are  the  rosy  memories  of  the 

lips. 
That  first  kissed  ours,  albeit  they  kiss 

no  more  : 

Sweet  is  the  sight  of  sunset-sailing  ships, 
Although  they  leave  us  on  a  lonely 

shore  : 
Sweet  are  familiar  songs,  though  Music 

dips 
Her  hollow  shell  in  Thought's  forlorn- 

est  wells  : 
And  sweet,  though  sad,  the  sound  of 

midnight  bells, 

When  the  oped  casement  with  the  night- 
rain  drips. 

There   is  a  pleasure  which  is  born  of 

pain  : 

The  grave  of  all  things  hath  its  violet. 
Else  why,  through  days  which  never  come 

again, 


Roams  Hope  with  that  strange  longing, 

like  Regret  ? 

Why  put  the  posy  in  the  cold  dead  hand  ? 
Why  plant  the  rose  above  the  lonely 

grave  ? 
Why  bring  the  corpse  across  the  salt 

sea-wave  ? 

Why  deem  the  dead  more  near  in  native 
land? 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  silence  in  my  life 
So  long,  it  falters  upon  language  now, 
0  more  to  me  than  sister  or  than  wife 
Once  .  .  .  and  now  —  nothing  !     It  is 

hard  to  know 
That  such  things  have  been,  and  are  not, 

and  yet 

Life  loiters,  keeps  a  pulse  at  even  meas- 
ure, 
And  goes  upon  its  business  and  its 

pleasure, 

And  knows  not  all  the  depth?  of  its  re- 
gret. 


PROLOGUE. 


159 


Thou   art   not   in   thy   picture,    0  my 

friend ! 
^  The  years  are  sad  and  many  since  I 

saw  thee, 
And  seem  with  me  to  have  survived  their 

end. 
Far  otherwise  than  thus  did  memory 

draw  thee 
I  ne'er  shall  know  thee  other  than  thou 

wast. 
Yet  save,  indeed,  the  same  sad  eyes 

of  old, 
And  that  abundant  hair's  warm  silken 

gold, 

Thou  art  changed,  if  this  be  like  the  look 
thou  hast. 

Changed  !     There  the  epitaph  of  all  the 

years 
"Was   sounded  !     I   am  changed  too. 

Let  it  be. 

Yet  is  it  sad  to  know  my  latest  tears 
Were  faithful  to  a  memory,  —  not  to 

thee. 
Nothing  is  left  us  !  nothing  —  save  the 

soul. 
Yet  even  the  immortal  in  us  alters 

too. 

Who  is  it  his  old  sensations  can  re- 
new ? 

Slowly  the  seas  are  changed.     Slow  ages 
roll 

The    mountains    to   a   level.       Nature 

sleeps, 
And  dreams  her  dream,  and  to  new 

work  awakes 

After  a  hundred  years  are  in  the  deeps. 
But  Man  is  changed  before  a  wrinkle 

breaks 
The  brow's  sereneness,  or  the  curls  are 

gray. 
We  stand  within  the  flux  of  sense  : 

the  near 
And  far  change  place :   and  we  see 

nothing  clear. 

That's  false  to-morrow  which  was  true 
to-day. 

Ah,  could  the  memory  cast  her  spots, 

as  do 
The  snake's  brood  theirs  in  spring  ! 

and  be  once  more 
Wholly  renewed,   to  dwell  i'  the  time 

that 's  new, 

With  no  reiterance  of  those  pangs  of 
yore. 


Peace,   peace  !     My  wild  song  will  go 

wandering 
Too  wantonly,  down  paths  a  private 

pain 
Hath  trodden   bare.      What  was   it 

jarred  the  strain  ? 

Some  crusht  illusion,  left  with  crumpled 
wing 

Tangled    in    Music's    web    of    twined 

strings  — 
That    started    that    false    note,    and 

cracked  the  tune 

In  its  beginning.     Ah,  forgotten  tilings 
Stumble    back    strangely  !     And   the 

ghost  of  June 
Stands  by  December's  fire,  cold,  cold  ! 

and  puts 
The  last  spark  out. 

How  could  I  sing  aright 
With  those  old  airs  haunting  me  all 

the  night 

And  those  old  steps  that  sound  when 
daylight  shuts  ? 

For  back  she  comes,  and  moves  reproach- 
fully, 
The  mistress  of  my  moods,  and  looks 

bereft 
(Cruel  to  the  last !)  as  though  't  were  I, 

not  she, 
That  did  the  wrong,  and  broke  the 

spell,  and  left 
Memory  comfortless. 

Away  !  away  ! 
Phantoms,    about  whose    brows    the 

bindweed  clings, 
Hopeless  regret ! 

In  thinking  of  these  things 
Some  men  have  lost  their  minds,  and 
others  may. 

Yet,  0,  for  one  deep  draught  in  this  dull 

hour  ! 

One  deep,  deep  draught  of  the  depart- 
ed time  ; 
0,  for  one  brief  strong  pulse  of  ancient 

power, 
To  beat  and  breathe  through  all  the 

valves  of  rhyme  ! 
Thou,  Memory,  with  the  downward  eyes, 

that  art 
The  cupbearer  of  gods,  pour  deep  and 

long, 

Brim  all  the  vacant  chalices  of  song 
With  health  !     Droop  down  thine  urn. 
I  hold  my  heart. 


160 


THE  WANDERER. 


One  draught  of  what  I  shall  not  taste 

again, 
Save  when  my  brain  with  thy  dark 

wine  is  brimmed,  — 
One  draught  !  and  then  straight  onward, 

spite  of  pain, 
And  spite  of  all  things  changed,  with 

gaze  undimmed, 
Love's  footsteps  through  the  waning  Past 

to  explore 
Undaunted  ;  and  to  carve,  in  the  wan 

light 

Of  Hope's  last  outposts,  on  Song's  ut- 
most height 
The  sad  resemblance  of  an  hour  no  more. 

Midnight,    and   love,    and    youth,   and 

Italy! 
Love  in  the  land  where  love  most  lovely 

seems  ! 

Land  of  my  love,  though  I  be  far  from  thee, 
Lend,  for  love's  sake,  the  light  of  thy 

moonbeams, 

The  spirit  of  thy  cypress-groves,  and  all 
Thy  dark-eyed  beauty,  for  a  little  while 
To  my  desire.  Yet  once  more  let  her 

smile 

Fall  o'er  me  :  o'er  me  let  her  long  hair 
fall, 

The  lady  of  my  life,  whose  lovely  eyes 
Dreaming,  or  waking,  lure  me.    I  shall 

know  her 

By  Love's  own  planet  o'erherin  the  skies, 
And  Beauty's  blossom  in  the  grass  be- 
low her  ! 
Dreaming,  or  waking,  in  her  soft,  sad 

gaze 
Let  my  heart  bathe,  as  on  that  fated 

night 
I  saw  her,  when  my  life  took  in  the 

sight 

Of  her  sweet  face  for  all  its  nights  and 
days. 

Her  winsome  head  was  bare  :  and  she 

had  twined 

Through  its  rich  curls  wild  red  anemo- 
nes ; 
One  stream  of  her  soft  hair  strayed  un- 

confined 
Down  her  ripe  cheek,  and  shadowed 

her  deep  eyes. 
The  bunch  of  sword-grass  fell  from  her 

loose  hand. 

Her  modest  foot  beneath  its  snowy 
skirt 


Peeped,  and  the  golden  daisy  was  not 

hurt. 

Stately,  yet  slight,  she  stood,  as  fairies 
stand. 

Under  the  blessed  darkness  unreproved 
We  were  alone,  in  that  blest  hour  of 

time, 
Which  first  revealed  to  us  how  much  we 

loved, 
'Neath  the  thick  starlight.    The  young 

night  sublime 
Hung  trembling  o'er  us.     At  her  )'<•<•(  I 

knelt, 
And  gazed  up  from  her  feet  into  her 

eyes. 
Her  face  was  bowed  :  we  breathed  each 

other's  sighs  : 

We  did  not  speak :  not  move:  we  looked: 
we  felt. 

The  night  said  not  a  word.     The  breeze 

was  dead. 
The  leaf  lay  without  whisj>ering  on  the 

tree, 
As  I  lay  at  her  feet.     Droopt  was  her 

head  : 

One  hand  in  mine  :  and  one  still  pen- 
sively 
Went  wandering  through  my  hair.     We 

were  together. 

How?  Where?  What  matter?  Some- 
where in  a  dream, 
Drifting,  slow  drifting,  down  a  wizard 

stream  : 

Whither  ?    Together  :  then  what  matter 
whither  ? 

It  was  enough  for  me  to  clasp  her  hand  : 
To  blend  with  her  love-looKs  my  own  : 

no  more. 
Enough  (with  thoughts  like  ships  that 

cannot  land, 
Blown  by  faint  winds  about  a  magic 

shore) 

To  realize,  in  each  mysterious  feeling, 
The  droop  of  the  warm  cheek  so  near 

my  own  : 
The  cool  white  arm  about  my  shoulder 

thrown  : 

Those  exquisite  frail  feet,  where  I  was 
kneeling. 

How   little   know    they   life's    divinest 

liliss, 

That  know  not  to  possess  and  yet  re- 
frain ! 


PROLOGUE. 


161 


Let  the  young  Psyche  roam,  a  fleeting 

kiss  :  — 
Grasp  it  —  a  few  poor  grains  of  dust 

remain. 

See  how  those  floating  flowers,  the  but- 
terflies, 
Hover  the  garden  through,  and  take 

no  root  ! 

Desire  forever  hath  a  flying  foot. 
Free  pleasure  comes  and  goes  beneath  the 
skies. 

Close  not  thy  hand  upon  the  innocent 

j°y 

That  trusts  itself  within  thy  reach.     It 

may, 

Or  may  not,  linger.     Thou  canst  but  de- 
stroy 
The  winged  wanderer.     Let  it  go  or 

stay. 
Love  thou  the  rose,  yet  leave  it  on  its 

stem. 
Think !  Midas  starved  by  turning  all 

to  gold. 
Blessed  are  those  that  spare,  and  that 

withhold. 

Because  the  whole  world  shall  be  trusted 
then. 

The  foolish  Faun  pursues  the  unwilling 

Nymph 

That  culls  her  flowers  beside  the  preci- 
pice, 

Or  dips  her  shining  ankles  in  the  lymph  : 
But,  just  when  she  must  perish  or  be 

his, 
Heaven  puts  an  arm  out.     She  is  safe. 

The  shore 
Gains  some  new  fountain  ;  or  the  lilied 

lawn 
A  rarer  sort  of  rose :   but,   ah,   poor 

Faun  ! 
To  thee  she  shall  be  changed  forevermore. 

Chase  not  too  close  the  fading  rapture. 

Leave 

To  Love  his  long  auroras,  slowly  seen. 
Be  ready  to  release,  as  to  receive. 
Deem  those  the  nearest,  soul  to  soul, 

between 
Whose  lips  yet  lingers  reverence  on  a 

sigh. 
Judge  what  thy  sense  can  reach  not, 

most  thine  own, 
If  once  thy  soul  hath  seized  it.     The 

unknown 

Is  life  to  love,  religion,  poetry. 
11 


The  moon  had  set.     There  was  not  any 

light, 
Save  of  the  lonely  legioned  watch-stars 

pale 
In   outer  air,   and  what  by  fits  made 

bright 

Hot  oleanders  in  a  rosy  vale 
Searched  by  the  lamping  fly,  whose  little 

spark 

Went  in  and  out,  like  passion's  bash- 
ful hope. 
Meanwhile  the  sleepy  globe  began  to 


A  ponderous  shoulder  sunward  through 
the  dark, 

And  the  night  passed  in  beauty  like  a 

dream. 
Aloof  in  those  dark  heavens  paused 

Destiny, 
With  her  last   star  descending  in  the 

gleam 
Of  the  cold  morrow,  from  the  emptied 

sky. 
The  hour,   the   distance  from  her  old 

self,  all 

The  novelty  and  loneness  of  the  place, 
Had  left  a  lovely  awe  on  that  fair 

face, 

And  all  the    land    grew  strange    and 
magical. 

As  droops  some  billowing  cloud  to  the 

crouched  hill,. 
Heavy  with  all  heaven's  tears,  for  all 

earth's  care, 
She  drooped  unto  me,  without  force  or 

will, 

And  sank  upon  my  bosom,  murmur- 
ing there 

A  woman's  inarticulate,  passionate  words. 
0  moment  of  all  moments  upon  earth  ! 
0  life's  supreme  !  How  worth,  how 

wildly  worth, 

Whole  worlds  of  flame,   to  know  this 
world  affords 

What  even  Eternity  cannot  restore  ! 
When  all  the  ends  of  life  take  hands, 

and  meet 
Round  centres  of  sweet  fire.     Ah,  never 

more, 
Ah  never,  shall  the  bitter  with  the 

sweet 

Be  mingled  so  in  the  pale  after-years  ! 
One  hour  of  life  immortal  spirits  pos- 
sess. 


162 


THK   WANDERER. 


This  drains  the  world,  and  leaves  but 

weariness, 

And  parching  passion,   and  perplexing 
tears. 

Sad  is  it,  that  we  cannot  even  keep 
That  hour  to  sweeten  life's  last  toil : 

but  Youth 
0  rasps  all,  and  leaves  us  :   and,  when 

we  would  weep, 
We  dare  not  let  our  tears  flow  lest,  in 

truth, 
Thi-y  full  upon  our  work  which  must  be 

done. 
And  so  we  bind  up  our  torn  hearts 

from  breaking  : 
Our  eyes  from  weeping,  and  our  brows 

from  aching  : 
And  follow  the  long  pathway  all  alone. 

0  moment  of  sweet  peril,  perilous  sweet ! 
When  woman  joins  herself  to  man  ; 

and  man 

Assumes  the  full-lived  woman,  to  com- 
plete 

The  end  of  life,  since  human  life  be- 
gan ! 

When  in  the  perfect  bliss  of  union, 
Body    and    soul    triumphal    rapture 

claim, 
When   there 's  a  spirit  in  blood,  in 

spirit  a  flame, 

And  earth's  lone  hemispheres  glow,  fused 
in  one ! 

Rare  moment  of  rare  peril !  .  .  .  The 

bard's  song, 
The  mystic's  musing  fancy.    Did  there 

ever 

Two  perfect  souls,  in  perfect  forms,  be- 
long 

Perfectly  to  each  other  ?  Never,  never ! 
Perilous  were  such  moments,  for  a  touch 
Might  mar  their  clear  perfection.    Ex- 
quisite 

Even  for  the  peril  of  their  frail  delight. 
Such  things  man  feigns  :   such  seeks  : 
but  finds  not  such. 

No  !  for  't  is  in  ourselves  our  love  doth 

grow  : 
And,    when   our  love   is   fully   risen 

within  us, 

Round  the  first  object  doth  it  overflow, 
Which,  be  it  fair  or  foul,  is  sure  to 
win  ua 


Out  of  ourselves.     We  clothe  with  our 

own  nature 
The  man  or  woman  its  first  want  doth 

find. 
The  leafless  prop  with  our  own  buds 

we  bind, 

And  hide  in  blossoms :  fill  the  empty 
feature 

With  our  own  meanings  :  even  prize  de- 
fects 
Which  keep  the  mark  of  our  own 

choice  upon 
The  chosen  :  bless  each  fault  whose  spot 

protects 

Our  choice  from  possible  confusion 
With  the  world's  other  creatures  :   we 

believe  them 
What  most  we  wish,  the  more  we  find 

they  are  not : 
Our  choice  once  made,  with  oA  own 

choice  we  war  not : 

We  worship  them  for  what  ourselves  we 
give  them. 

Doubt  is  this  otherwise.  .  .  .  When  fate 

removes 
The  unworthy  one  from  our  reluctant 

arms, 

We  die  with  that  lost  love  to  other  loves, 
And  turn   to   its  defects  from  other 

charms. 
And  nobler  forms,  where  moved  those 

forms,  may  move 

With  lingering  looks  :  our  cold  fare- 
wells we  wave  them. 
We  loved  our  lost  loves  for  the  love 

we  gave  them, 

And  not  for  anything  they  gave  our 
love. 

Old  things  return  not  as  they  were  in 

Time. 
Trust  nothing  to  the  recompense  of 

Chance, 
Which  deals  with  novel  forms.      This 

falling  rhyme 
Fails  from  the  flowery  steeps  of  old 

romance, 
Down  that  abyss  which  Memory  droops 

above, 
And,  gazing  out  of  hopelessness  down 

there, 
I  see  the  shadow  creep  through  Youth's 

gold  hair 

And  white  Death  watching  over  red- 
lipped  I/ore, 


PROLOGUE. 


163 


PART  II. 

THE  soul  lives  ou.     What  lives  on  with 

the  soul  ? 
Glimpses  of  something  better  than  her 

best ; 

Truer  than  her  truest :  motion  to  a  pole 
Beyond  the  zones  of  this  orb's  dimness 

guest  : 
And  (since  life  dies  not  with  the  first 

dead  bliss) 
Blind  notions  of  some  meaning  moved 

through  time, 

Some  purpose  in  the  deeps  of  the  sub- 
lime, 

That  stirs  a  pulse  here,  could  we  find 
out  this. 

Visions  and  noises  rouse  us.     I  discern 
Even  in  change  some  comfort,  0  Be- 
loved ! 

Suns  rise  and  set ;  stars  vanish  and  re- 
turn ; 
But  never  quite  the  same.     And  life 

is  moved 
Toward  new  experience.     Every  eve  and 

morn 
Descends  and  springs  with  increase  on 

the  world. 
And  what  is  death  but  life  in  this  life 

furled  ? 

The  outward  cracks,  the  inward  life  is 
born. 

Friends  pass  beyond  the  borders  of  this 

Known, 
And  draw  our  thoughts  up  after  them. 

We  say 
"  They  are  :  but  their  relations  now  are 

done 
With  Nature,  and  the  plan  of  night 

and  day." 
If  never  mortal  man  from  this  world's 

light 
Did  pass  away  to  that  surrounding 

gloom, 
'T  were  well  to  doubt  the  life  beyond 

the  tomb  ; 
But  now  is  Truth's  dark  side  revealed  to 


Father  of  spirits  !     Thine  all  secrets  be. 
I  bless  Thee  for  the  light  Thou  hast 

revealed, 

And  that  Thou  hidest.    Part  of  me  I  see, 
And  part   of  me   Thy  wisdom  hath 
concealed, 


Till    the  new  life   divulge  it.      Lord, 

imbue  me 
With  will   to  work   in   this  diurnal 

sphere, 
Knowing  myself  my  life's  day -laborer 

here, 

Where  evening  brings  the  day's  work's 
wages  to  me. 

I  work  my  work.     All  its  results  are 

Thine. 

I  know  the  loyal  deed  becomes  a  fact 
Which  Thou  wilt  deal  with  :  nor  will  I 

repine 

Although  I  miss  the  value  of  the  act. 
Thou  carest  for  the  creatures :  and  the 

end  - 
Thou   seest.      The   world  unto  Thy 

hands  I  leave  : 
And  to  Thy  hands  my  life.    I  will  not 

grieve 

Because  I  know  not  all  Thou  dost  in- 
tend. 

Something  I  know.     Oft,  shall  it  come 

about 
When  every  heart  is  full  with  hope  for 

man 
The  horizon  straight  is  darkened,  and  & 

doubt 
Clouds  all.     The  work  the  world  so 

well  began 
Wastes  down,  and  by  some  deed  of  shame 

is  finished. 
Ah  yet,  I  will  not  be  dismayed  :  nor 

though 

The  good  cause  flourish  fair,  and  Free- 
dom flow 

All  round,  my  watch  beyond  shall  be 
diminished. 

What  seemed  the  triumph  of  the  Fiend 

at  length 
Might  be   the   effort  of  some  dying 

Devil, 

Permitted  to  put  forth  his  fulleststrength 
To  lose  it  all  forever.    While,  the  evil 
Whose  cloven  crest  our  paeans  float  above 
Might  have  been  less  than  what  un- 
noticed lies 
'Neath  our  rejoicings.     Which  of  us  is 

wise  ? 

We  know  not  what  we  mourn  :  nor  "why 
we  love. 

But  teach  me,  0  Omnipotent,  since  strife, 
Sorrow,  and  pain  are  but  occurrences 


164 


THE  WANDERER. 


Of  that  condition  through  which  flows 

my  life, 
Not  part  of  me,  the  immortal,  whom 

distress 
Cannot  retain,  to  vex  not  thought  for 

these  : 

But  to  be  patient,  bear,  forbear,  re- 
strain, 
And  hold  my  spirit  pure  above  my 

pain. 

No  star  that  looks  through  life's  dark 
lattices, 

But  what  gives  token  of  a  world  else- 
where. 
I  bless  Thee  for  the  loss  of  all  things 

here 
Which  proves  the  gain  to  be  :  the  hand 

of  Care 
That  shades  the  eyes  from  earth,  and 

beckons  near 
The  rest  which  sweetens  all :  the  shade 

Time  throws 
On  Love's  pale  countenance,  that  he 

may  gaze 

Across  Eternity  for  better  days 
Unblinded  ;  and  the  wisdom  of  all  woes  : 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  life  Thou  gavest, 

albeit 
It  hath  known  sorrow  :  for  the  sorrow's 

self 
I  bless  Thee  ;  and  the  gift  of  wings  to 

flee  it, 
Led  by   this  spirit   of   song,  —  this 

ministering  elf, 

That  to  sweet  uses  doth  unwind  my  pain, 
And   spin   his  palace  out  of  poison- 
flowers, 

To  float,  an  impulse,  through  the  live- 
long hours, 

From  sky  to  sky,  on  Fancy's  glittering 
skein. 

Aid  me,  sweet  Spirit,  escaping  from  the 

throng 
Of  those   that  raise   the   Corybantic 

shout, 
And  barbarous,  dissonant  cymbal's  clash 

prolong, 

In  fear  lest  any  hear  the  God  cry  out, 
Now  that  the  night  resumes  her  bleak 

retreat 
In  these  dear  lands,  footing  the  un- 

wandered  waste 

Of  Loss,  to  walk  in  Italy,  and  taste 
A  little  while  of  what  was  once  so  sweet. 


PART  III. 

NURSE  of  an  ailing  world,  beloved  Ni^lit ! 
Our  days  are  fretful  children,  weak  to 

bear 
A  little  pain:  they  wrangle,  wound,  and 

fight 

Each  other,  weep,  and  sicken,  and  de- 
spair. 
Thou,    with    thy  motherly   hand    that 

healeth  care, 

Stillest  our  little  noise  :  rebukest  one, 
Soothest  another :  blamest  tasks  un- 
done: 

Refreshest  jaded    hope ;    and    teachest 
prayer. 

Thine  is  the  mother's  sweet  hush-hush, 

that  stills 
The  flutterings  of  a  plaintive  heart  to 

rest. 
Thine  is  the  mother's  medicining  hand 

that  fills 

Sleep's  opiate  :  thine  the  mother's  pa- 
tient breast : 

Thine,  too,  the  mother's  mute  reproach- 
ful eyes, 
That  gently  look  our  angry  noise  to 

shame 
When  all  is  done  :  we  dare  not  meet 

their  blame  : 
They  are  so  silent,  and  they  are  so  wise. 

Thou  that  from  this  lone  casement,  while 

I  write, 
Seen  in  the  shadowy  upspring,  swift 

dost  post 

Without  a  sound  the  polar  star  to  light, 
Not  idly  did  the  Chaldee  shepherds 

boast 
By  thy  stem  lights  man's  life  aright  to 

read. 
All  day  he  hides  himself  from  his  own 

heart, 
Swaggers   and   struts,  and   plays  his 

foolish  part : 
Thou  only  seest  him  as  he  is  indeed. 

For  who  could  feign  false  worth,  or  give 

the  nod 

Among  his  fellows,  or  this  dust  dis- 
own, 
With  nought   between   him   and   those 

lights  of  God, 

Left  awfully  alone  with  the  Alone  ? 
Who    vaunt   high   words,    whose    least 
heart's  beating  jars 


PROLOGUE. 


165 


The  hush  of  sentinel  worlds  that  take 

mute  note 
Of  all  beneath  yon  judgment  plains 

remote  '!  — 
A  universal  cognizance  of  stars  ! 

And  yet,  0  gentlest  angel  of  the  Lord  ! 
Thou  leadest  by  the  hand  the  artisan 
Away  from   work.     Thou   bringest,   on 

ship- board, 
When  gleam  the  dead-lights,  to  the 

lonely  man 

That  turns  the  wheel,  a  blessed  memory 
Of  apple-blossoms,  and  the  mountain 

vales 

About  his  little  cottage  in  Green  Wales, 
Miles  o'er  the  ridges  of  the  rolling  sea. 

Thou  bearest  divine  forgiveness  amongst 

men. 

Eelenting  Anger  pauses  by  the  bed 
Where  Sleep  looks  so  like  Death.     The 

absent  then 
Return  ;  and   Memory  beckons  back 

the  dead. 

Thou  helpest  home  (thy  balmy  hand  it  is  !) 
The  hard-worked  husband  to  the  pale- 
cheeked  wife, 

And  hushest  up  the  poor  day's  house- 
hold strife 

On  marriage  pillows,  with  a  good-night 
kiss. 

Thou  bringest  to  the  wretched  and  forlorn 
Woman,   that  down   the  glimmering 

by-street  hovers, 
A  dream  of  better  days  :  the  gleam  of 

corn 
About  her  father's  field,  and  her  first 

lover's 
Grave,    long    forgotten    in    the    green 

churchyard  : 
Voices,  long-stilled,  from  purer  hours, 

before 
The  rushlight,  Hope,  went  out ;  and, 

through  the  door 

Of  the  lone  garret,  when  the  nights  were 
hard, 

Hunger,  the  wolf,  put  in  his  paw,  and 

found  her 
Sewing  the  winding-sheet  of  Youth, 

alone  ; 
And  griped  away  the  last  cold  comforts 

round  her  :  — 

Her  little  bed ;  the  mean  clothes  she 
had  on  : 


Her   mother's  picture  —  the  sole  saint 

she  knew  : 
Till  nothing  else  was  left  for  the  last 

crust 
But  the  poor  body,  and  the  heart's 

young  trust 

In  its  own  courage  :  and  so  these  went 
too. 

Home  from  the  heated  Ball  flusht  Beauty 

stands, 

Musing  beside  her  costly  couch  alone  : 
But  while  she  loosens,  faint,  with  jew- 
elled hands, 
The  diamonds  from  her  dark  hair,  one 

by  one, 
Thou  whisperest  in  her  empty  heart  the 

name 
Of  one  that  died  heart-broken  for  her 

sake 
Long  since,  and  all  at  once  the  coiled 

hell-snake 

Turns  stinging  in  his  egg,  —  and  pomp 
is  shame. 

Thou  comest  to  the  man  of  many  pleas- 
ures 
Without  a  joy,  that,  soulless,   plays 

for  souls, 

Whose  life 's  a  squandered  heap  of  plun- 
dered treasures, 

While,  listless  loitering  by,  the  mo- 
ment rolls 
From  nothing  on  to  nothing.     From  the 

shelf 
Perchance    he   takes   a   cynic   book. 

Perchance 
A  dead  flower  stains  the  leaves.     The 

old  romance 

Returns.   Ere  morn,  perchance,  he  shoots 
himself. 

Thou  comest,  with  a  touch  of  scorn,  to 

me, 
That  o'er  the  broken  wine-cup  of  my 

youth 

Sit  brooding  here,  and  pointest  silently 
To  thine  unchanging  stars.     Yes  !  yes ! 

in  truth, 
They  seem  more  reachless  now  than  when 

of  yore 
Above  the  promist  land  J  watcht  them 

shine, 

And  all  among  their  cryptic  serpentine 
Went  climbing  Hope,  new  planets  to  ex- 
plore. 


166 


THE    WANHKRER. 


Not  for  the  flesh  that  fades — although 

decay 
This  thronged  metropolis  of  sense  o'er- 

spreiitl  : 

Not  for  the  joys  of  youth,  that  fleet  away 
When  the  wise  swallows  to  the  south 

are  fled  ; 
Not  that,  beneath  the  law  which  fades 

the  flower, 
An  earthly  hope  should  wither  in  the 

cells 
Of  this   poor  earthly   house  of  life, 

where  dwells 
Unseen  the  solitary  Thinking- Power ; 

But  that  where  fades  the  flower  the  weed 

should  flourish  ; 

For  all  the  baffled  efforts  to  achieve 
The  imperishable  from  the  things  that 

perish, 
For  broken  vows,  and  weakened  will, 

1  grieve. 

Knowing  that  night  of  all  is  creeping  on 
Wherein  can  no  man  work,  1  sorrow  most 
For  what  is  gained,  and  not  for  what 

is  lost ; 

Nor  mourn  alone  what 's  undone,  but 
what 's  done. 

What  light,  from  yonder  windless  cloud 

released, 
Is  widening  up  the  peaks  of  yon  black 

hills  ? 

It  is  the  full  moon  in  the  mystic  east, 
"Whose    coming    half   the    unravisht 

darkness  fills 
Till  all  among  the  ribbed  light  cloudlets 

pale, 
From  shore  to  shore  of  sapphrine  deeps 

divine, 
The  orbed  splendor  seems  to  slide  and 

shine 
•'Aslope  the  rolling  vapors  in  the  vale. 

Abroad  tiie  stars'  majestic  light  is  flung, 
And  they  fade  brightening  up  the  steps 

of  Night. 
Cold  mysteries  of  the  midnight !  that, 

among 
The  sleeps  and  pauses  of  this  world, 

in  sight, 

Reveal  a  doubtful  hope  to  wild  Desire  ; 
Which,  hungering  for  the  sources  of 

the  suns, 
Makes  moan  beyond  the  blue  Septen- 

trions, 
And  spidery  Saturn  in  his  webs  of  fire  ; 


Whether  the  unconscious  destinies  of 

man 
Move    with     the     motions    of    your 

sphered  lights, 
And  his  brief  course,  foredoomed  ere  he 

began, 

Your  shining  symbols  fixed  in  reach- 
less heights, 

Or  whether  all  the  purpose  of  his  pain 
Be  shut  in  his  wild  heart  and  feverish 

will, 
He  knows  no  more  than  this  :  —  that 

you  are  still, 

But  he  is  moved  :    he   goes,   but   you 
remain. 

Fooled  was  the  human  vanity  that  wrote 
Strange  names  in  astral  fire  on  yonder 

pole. 
Who  and  what  were  they  —  in  what  age 

remote  — 
That  scrawled  weak    boasts    on  yon 

sidereal  scroll  ? 
Orion   shines.     Now  seek   for  Nimrod. 

Where  ? 

Osiris  is  a  table,  and  no  more  : 
But  Sirius  bums  as  brightly  as  of 

yore. 
There  is  no  shade  on  Berenice's  hair. 

You  that  outlast  the  Pyramids,  as  they 
Outlast  their  founders,  tell  us  of  our 

doom  ! 
You  that   see  Love   depart,  and  Error 

stray, 

And  Genius  toiling  at  a  splendid  tomb, 
Like  those  Egyptian  slaves  :  and  Hope 

deceived  : 
And  Strength  still  failing  when  the 

goal  is  near  : 
And   Passion    parcht :    and   Rapture 

claspt  to  Fear : 

And  Trust  betrayed  :   and  Memory  be- 
reaved ! 

Vain  question  !     Shall  some  other  voice 

declare 
What  my  soul  knows  not  of  herself? 

Ah  no  ! 

Dumb  patient  Monster,  grieving  every- 
where, 
Thou  answerest  nothing  which  I  did 

not  know. 
The  broken   fragments  of  ourselves  we 

seek 

In   alien  forms,  and   leave  our  lives 
behind. 


PROLOGUE. 


167 


In  our  own  memories  our  graves  we 

find. 

And  when  we  lean   upon   our  hearts, 
they  break. 

I  seem  to  see  'mid  yonder  glimmering 

spheres 
Another  world : — not  that  our  prayers 

record, 
Wherein  our  God  shall  wipe  away  all 

tears, 
And  never  voice  of  mourning  shall  be 

heard  ; 

But  one  between  the  sunset  and  moon- 
rise  : 
Near  night,  yet  neighboring  day  :  a 

twilit  land, 

And  peopled  by  a  melancholy  band — 
The  souls  that  loved  and  failed  —  with 
hopeless  eyes  ; 

More  like  that   Hades  of  the  antique 

creeds  ;  — 
A  land  of  vales  forlorn,  where  Thought 

shall  roam 
Regretful,    void  of    wholesome  human 

deeds, 
An    endless,    homeless    pining   after 

home, 
To  which  all  sights  and   sounds  shall 

minister 
In  vain  :  —  white  roses  glimmering  all 

alone 
In  an   evening  light,   and,   with  his 

haunting  tone, 

The    advancing    twilight's    shard-born 
trumpeter. 

A  world  like  this  world's  worst  come 

back  again  ; 
Still  groaning  'neath  the  burthen  of 

.a  Fall  : 

Eternal  longing  with  eternal  pain, 
Want  without  hope,  and  memory  sad- 
dening all. 

All  congregated  failure  and  despair 
Shall  wander  there,  through  some  old 

maze  of  wrong  :  — 
Ophelia  drowning  in  her  own  death- 
song, 

And  First-Love  strangled  in  his  golden 
hair. 

Ai  well,   for  those  that  overcome,  no 

doubt 

The  crowns  are  ready  ;  strength  is  to 
the  strong. 


But  we  —  but  we  —  weak  hearts  that 

grope  about 
In  darkness,  with  a  lamp  that  fails 

along 
The   lengthening  midnight,    dying  ere 

we  reach 
The  bridal   doors  !     0,  what  for  us 

remains, 

But  mortal  effort  with  immortal  pains  ? 
And  yet  —  God  breathed  a  spirit  into 
each  ! 

I   know  this    miracle    of   the    soul  is 

more 
Than   all  the  marvels  that  it  looks 

upon. 
And  we  are  kings  whose  heritage  was 

before 
The  spheres,  and  owes  no  homage  to 

the  sun. 
In  my  own  breast  a  mightier  world  I 

bear 
Than  all  those  orbs  on  orbs  about  me 

rolled  ; 
Nor  are  you  kinglier,  stars,  though 

throned  on  gold, 

And  given  the  empires  of  the  midnight- 
air. 

For  I,  too,  am  undying  as  you  are. 
0  teach  me  calm,  and  teach  me  self- 
control  :  — 

To  sphere  my  spirit  like  yon  fixed  star 
That  moves  not  ever  in  the  utmost 

pole, 
But  whirls,  and  sleeps,  and  turns  all 

heaven  one  way. 
So,  strong  as  Atlas,  should  the  spirit 

stand, 
And  turn  the  great  globe  round  in  her 

right  hand, 
For  recreation  of  her  sovereign  sway. 

Ah  yet !  —  For  all,  I  shall  not  use  my 

power, 
Nor  reign  within  the  light  of  my  own 

home, 
Till  speculation  fades,  and  that  strange 

hour 

Of  the  departing  of  the  soul  is  come  ; 
Till   all   this    wrinkled    husk    of   care 

falls  by, 

And  my  immortal  nature  stands  up- 
right 
In  her  perpetual  morning,    and  the 

light 
Of  suns  that  set  not  on  Eternity  ! 


168 


THE  WANDEBEB. 


BOOK  I. -IN  ITALY. 


THE  MAGIC  LAND. 

BY  woodland  belt,  by  ocean  bar, 
The  full  south  breeze  our  foreheads 
fanned, 

And,  under  many  a  yellow  star, 
We  dropped  into  the  Magic  Land. 

There,  every  sound  and  every  sight 
Means  more  than  sight  or  sound  else- 
where ; 

Each  twilight  star  a  twofold  light  ; 
Each  rose  a  double  redness,  there. 

By  ocean  bar,  by  woodland  belt, 
Our  silent  course  a  syren  led, 

Till  dark  in  dawn  began  to  melt, 

Through  the  wild  wizard-work  o'er- 
head. 

A  murmur  from  the  violet  vales  ! 

A  glory  in  the  goblin  dell  ! 
There  Beauty  all  her  breast  unveils, 

And  Music  pours  out  all  her  shell. 

We  watched,  toward  the  land  of  dreams, 
The  fair  moon  draw  the  murmuring 

main  ; 

A  single  thread  of  silver  beams 
Was    made    the    monster's    rippling 
chain. 

We  heard  far  off  the  syren's  song  ; 

We  caught  the  gleam  of  sea-maid's  hair. 
The  glimmering  isles  and  rocks  among, 

We  moved  through  sparkling  purple 


Then  Morning  rose,  and  smote  from  far, 
Her  eltin  harps  o'er  land  and  sea  ; 

And  woodland  belt,  and  ocean  bar, 
To  one  sweet  note,  sighed  "  Italy  ! " 

DESIRE. 

THE  golden  Planet  of  the  Occident^ 
Warm  from  his  bath  comes  up,  i'  the 

rosy  air, 
And  you  may  tell  which  way  the  Day 

light  went, 

Only  by  his   last   footsteps  shining 
there: 


''or  now  he  dwells 

Sea-deep  o'  the  other  shore  of  the  world. 
Vnd  winds  himself  in  the  pink-mouthed 

shells  ; 

Or,  with  his  dusky,  sun-dyed  Pri> 
Walks  in  the  gardens  of  the  gorgeous  V.;i*  \  : 
Or  hides  in  Indian  him;  or  sailrth 

where 

Floats,  curiously  curled, 
Leagues  out  of  sight  and  scent  of  spicy 

trees, 

The  cream-white  nautilus  on  sapphrine 
seas. 

But  here  the  Night  from  the  hill-top 

yonder 

Steals  all  alone,  nor  yet  too  soon  ; 
I  have  sighed  for,  and  sought  for,  her ; 

sadder  and  fonder 
(All  through  the  lonely  and  lingering 

noon) 
Than  a  maiden  that  sits  by  the  lattice  to 

ponder 
On  vows  made  in  vain,   long  since, 

under  the  moon. 
Her  dusky  hair  she  hath  shaken  free, 

And  her  tender  eyes  are  wild  with  love  ; 
And  her  balmy  bosom  lies  bare  to  me. 
She  hath  lighted  the  seven  sweet  Plei- 
ads above, 

She  is  breathing  over  the  dreaming  sea, 
She  is  murmuring  low  in  the  cedar 

grove  ; 

She  hath  put  to  sleep  the  moaning  dove 
In  the  silent  cypress-tree. 

And  there  is  no  voice  nor  whisper,  — 
No  voice  nor  whisper, 

In  the  hillside  olives  all  at  rest, 
Underneath  blue-lighted  Hesper, 

Sinking,  slowly,  in  the  liquid  west : 
For  the  night's  heart  knoweth  best 
Love  by  silence  most  exprest. 
The  nightingales  keep  mute 
Each  one  his  fairy  ilute, 
Where  the  unite  stars  look  down, 
And  the  laurels  close  the  green  seaside  : 
Only  one  amorous  lute 
Twangs  in  the  distant  town, 
From  some  lattice  opened  wide  : 
The  climbing  rose  and  vine  are  here,  are 
there. 


IN   ITALY. 


169 


On  the  terrace,  around,  above  me  : 
The  lone  Ledaean*  lights  from  yon  en- 
chanted air 

Look  down  upon  my  spirit,  like  a  spir- 
it's eyes  that  love  me. 

How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  muse  on  the 

mountain  height, 

Moated  in  purple  air,  and  all  alone  ! 
How  beautiful,  at  night,  to  look  into  the 

light 
Of  loving  eyes,  when  loving  lips  lean 

down  unto  our  own  ! 
But  there  is  no  hand  in  mine,  no  hand 

in  mine, 

Nor  any  tender  cheek  against  me  prest : 
0  stars  that  o'er  me  shine,  I  pine,  I  pine, 

I  pine, 

With  hopeless  fancies  hidden  in  an 
ever-hungering  breast ! 

0  where,  0  where  is  she  that  should  be 

here, 

The  spirit  my  spirit  dreameth  ? 
With  the  passionate  eyes,  so  deep,  so 

dear, 

Where  a  secret  sweetness  beameth  ? 

0  sleepeth  she,  with  her  soft  gold  hair 

Streaming  over  the  fragrant  pillow, 

And  a  rich  dream  glowing  in  her  ripe 

cheek, 

Far  away,  I  know  not  where, 
By  lonely  shores,  where  the  tumbling 

billow 
Sounds  all  night  in  an  emerald  creek  ? 

Or  doth  she  lean  o'er  the  casement  stone 

When  the  day's  dull  noise  is  done  with, 
And  the  sceptred  spirit  remounts  alone 

Into  her  long-usurped  throne, 
By  the  stairs  the  stars  are  won  with  ? 

Hearing  the  white  owl  call 
Where    the    river    draws    through    the 
meadows  below, 

By  the  beeches  brown,  and  the  broken 

wall, 
His  silvery,  seaward  waters,  slow 

To  the  ocean  bounding  all : 
With,  here  a  star  on  his  glowing  breast, 

And,  there  a  lamp  down-streaming, 
And  a  musical  motion  towards  the  west 

Where  the  long  white  cliffs  are  gleam- 
ing ; 


*  "How  oft,  unwearied,  have  we  spent  the 

nights, 

Till  the  Ledsean  stars,  so  famed  for  love, 
Wondered  at  us  from  above."  —  COWLEV. 


While,  far  in  the  moonlight,  lies  at  rest 
A  great  ship,  asleep  and  dreaming  ? 

Or  doth  she  linger  yet 

Among  her  sisters  and  brothers, 
In  the  chamber  where  happy  faces  are 

met, 

Distinct  from  all  the  others  ? 
As  my  star  up  there,  be  it  never  so  bright, 

No  other  star  resembles. 
Doth  she  steal  to  the  window,  and  strain 

her  sight 

(While  the  pearl  in  her  warm  hair  trem- 
bles) 

Over  the  dark,  the  distant  night, 
Feeling  something  changed  in  her  home 

yet; 

That  old  songs  have  lost  their  old  de- 
light, 

And  the  true  soul  is  not  come  yet  ? 
Till  the  nearest  star  in  sight 
Is  drowned  in  a  tearful  light. 

I  would  that  I  were  nigh  her, 
Wherever  she  rest  or  rove  ! 

My  spirit  waves  as  a  spiral  fire 
In  a  viewless  wind  doth  move. 

Go  forth,  alone,  go  forth,  wild-winged. 

Desire, 
Thou  art  the  bird  of  Jove, 

That  broodest   lone  by  the   Olympian 
throne  ; 

And  strong  to  bear  the  thunders  which 
destroy, 

Or  fetch  the  ravisht,  flute-playing  Phry- 
gian boy  ; 

Go  forth,  across  the  world,  and  find  my 
love  ! 


FATALITY. 

I  HAVE  seen  her,  with  her  golden  hair, 
And  her  exquisite  primrose  face, 

And  the  violet  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  my  heart  received  its  own  despair  — 
The  thrall  of  a  hopeless  grace, 
And  the  knowledge  of  how  youth 
dies. 

Live  hair  afloat  with  snakes  of  gold, 
And  a  throat  as  white  as  snow, 

And  a  stately  figure  and  foot ; 
And  that  faint  pink  smile,  so  sweet,  so 

cold, 

Like  a  wood  anemone,  closed  below 
The  shade  of  an  ilex  root. 


170 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  her  delicate  milk-white  hand  in 

mine, 
And  her  pensive  voice  in  my  ear, 

Ami  her  eyes  downcast  as  we  speak. 
I  iun  filled  with  a  rapture,  vague  ami  I'm.- ; 
For  there  has  fallen  a  sparkling  tear 
Over  her  soft,  pale  cheek. 

And  I  know  that  all  is  hopeless  now. 
And  that  which  might  have  been, 

Had  she  only  waited  a  year  or  two, 
Is  turned  to  a  wild  regret,  I  know, 
Which  will  haunt  us  both,  whatever 

the  scene, 
And  whatever  the  path  we  go. 

Meanwhile,  foronemoment,  hand  in  hand, 
We  gaze  on  each  other's  eyes  ; 

And  the  red  moon  rises  above  us  ; 
We  linger  with  love  in  the  lovely  land,  — 
Italy  with  its  yearning  skies, 
And  its  wild  white  stars  that  love  us. 


A  VISION. 

THE  hour  of  Hesperus  !  the  hour  when 

feeling 
Grows  likest   memory,   and  the  full 

heart  swells 
With  pensive  pleasure  to  the  mellow 

pealing 

Of  mournful  music  upon  distant  bells  : 
The  hour  when  it  seems  sweetest  to  be 

.    loved, 
And  saddest  to  have  loved  in  days  no 

more. 

0  love,  0  life,  0  lovely  land  of  yore, 
Through  which,   erewhile,  these  weary 
footsteps  roved, 

Was  it  a  vision  ?    Or  Irene,  sitting, 
Lone  in  her  chamber,  on  her  snowy 

bed, 
With  listless  fingers,  lingeringly  unknit- 

ting 
Her  silken  bodice ;  and,  with  bended 

head, 
Hiding  in  warm  hair,  half-way  to  her 

knee, 
Her  pearl-pale  shoulder,   leaning  on 

one  arm, 
Athwart   the  darkness,   odorous  and 

warm, 

To  watch  the  low,  full  moon  Bet,  pen- 
sively ? 


A  fragrant  lamp  burned  dimly  in  the  room, 
With  scarce  a  gleam  in  either  looking- 

S'ass. 
ow  moonlight,  through  the  deep- 
blue  gloom, 

Did  all  along  the  dreamy  chamber  pass, 

As  though  it  were  a  little  toucht  with  awe 

(Being  new-come  into  that  (piiet  place 

In  such  a  quiet  way)  at  the  strange 

grace 
Of  that  pale  lady,  and  what  else  it  saw  ;  — 

Rare    flowers :     narcissi ;     irises,    each 

crowned ; 

Red  oleander  blossoms  ;  hyacinths 
Flooding  faint  fragrance,  richly  curled 

all  round, 
Corinthian,  cool  columnar  flowers  on 

plinths  ; 

Waxen  camelias,  white  and  crimson  ones ; 
And  amber  lilies,  and  the  regal  rose, 
Which  for  the  breast  of  queens  full- 
scornful  grows ; 
All  pinnacled  in  urns  of  carven  bronze  : 

Tables  of  inwrought  stone,  tme  Floren- 
tine, — 

Olympian  circles  thronged  with  Mer- 
curies, 

Minervas,  little  Junos  dug  i'  the  green 
Of  ruined  Rome ;  and  Juno  sown  rich  eyes 
Vivid  on  peacock  plumes  Sidonian  : 
A  ribboned  lute,  young  Music's  cradle : 

books, 

Vellumed  and  claspt :   and  with  be- 
wildered looks, 

Madonna's     picture,  —  the    old    smile 
grown  wan. 

From  bloomed  thickets,  firefly-lamped, 

beneath 

The  terrace,  flu  ted  cool  the  nightingale. 

In  at  the  open  window  came  the  breath 

Of  many  a  balmy,  dim  blue,  dreaming 

vale. 

At  intervals  the  howlet's  note  came  clear, 
Fluttering  dark  silence  through   the 

cypress  grove  ; 
An  infant  breeze  from  the  elf-land  of 

Love, 

Lured  by  the  dewy  hour,  crept,  lisping, 
near. 

And  now  is  all  the  night  her  own,  to 

make  it 

Or  grave  or  gay  with  throngs  of  wak- 
ing dreams. 


IN    ITALY. 


171 


Now  grows  her  heart  so  ripe,   a  sigh 

might  shake  it 

To  showers  of  fruit,  all  golden  as  be- 
seems 
Hesperian  growth.     Why  not,  on  nights 

like  this, 
Should  Daphne  out  from  yon  green 

laurel  slip  ? 

A  Dryad  from  the  ilex,  with  white  hip 
Quivered  and  thonged  to  hunt  with  Ar- 
temis ? 

To-night,  what  wonder  were  it,   while 

such  shadows 
Are  taking  up  such  shapes  on  moonlit 

mountains, 
Such  slar-flies  kindling  o'er  low  emerald 

meadows, 
Such  voices  floating  out   of  hillside 

fountains, 

If  some  full  face  should  from  the  win- 
dow greet  her, 
Whose  eyes  should  be  new  planetary 

lights, 

Whose  voice  a  well  of  liquid  love- 
delights, 

And  to  the  distance  sighingly  entreat 
her? 


EROS. 

WHAT  wonder  that  I  loved  her  thus, 
that  night  ? 

The  Immortals  know  each  other  at  first 
sight, 

And  Love  is  of  them.  . 

In  the  fading  light 

Of  that  delicious  eve,  whose  stars  even  yet 

Gild  the  long  dreamless  nights,  and  can- 
not set, 

She  passed  me,  through  the  silence  :  all 
her  hair, 

Her  waving,  warm,  bright  hair  neglect- 
fully 

Poured  round  her  snowy  throat  as  with- 
out care 

Of  its  own  beauty. 

And  when  she  turned  on  me 

The  sorrowing  light  of  desolate  eyes  di- 
vine, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  what  our  lives  must 
be 

Henceforth.     It  lightened  on  me  then 
and  there, 

How  she  was  irretrievably  all  mine, 

I  hers,  —  through  time,  become  eternity. 


It  could  not  ever  have  been  otherwise, 
Gazing  into  those  eyes. 

And  if,  before  I  gazed  on  them,  my  soul, 
Oblivious  of  her  destiny,  had  followed, 
In  days  forever  silent,  the  control 
Of  any  beauty  less  divinely  hallowed 
Than   that    upon    her    beautiful   whitt 

brows, 
(The  serene  summits  of  all  earthly  sweet-. 

ness  ! ) 

Straightway  the  records  of  all  other  vows 
Of  idol-worship  faded  silently 
Out  of  the  folding  leaves  of  memory, 
Forever  and  forever ;  and  my  heart  be- 
came 

Pure  white  at  once,  to  keep  in  its  com- 
pleteness, 

And  perfect  purity, 
Her  mystic  name. 


INDIAN   LOVE-SONG. 

MY  body  sleeps  :  my  heart  awakes. 

My  lips  to  breathe  thy  name  are  moved 
In  slumber's  ear  :  then  slumber  breaks ; 

And  I  am  drawn  to  thee,  beloved. 
Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me, 

Through  sleep,  through  night.     I  hear 
the  rills, 

And  hear  the  leopard  in  the  hills, 
And  down  the  dark  I  feel  to  thee. 

The  vineyards  and  the  villages 

Were  silent  in  the  vales,  the  rocks. 
I  followed  past  the  myrrhy  trees, 

And  by  the  footsteps  of  the  flocks. 
Wild  honey,  dropt  from  stone  to  stone, 

Where  bees  have  been,  my  path  sug- 
gests. 

The  winds  are  in  the  eagles'  nests. 
The  moon  is  hid.     I  walk  alone. 

Thou  drawest  me,  thou  drawest  me 

Across  the  glimmering  wildernesses, 
And  drawest  me,  my  love,  to  thee, 

With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy  tresse* 
The  world  is  many  :  my  love  is  one. 

I  find  no  likeness  for  my  love. 

The  cinnamons  grow  in  the  grove  : 
The  Golden  Tree  grows  all  alone. 

0  who  hath  seen  her  wondrous  hair  ! 

Or  seen  my  dove's  eyes  in  the  woods  ? 
Or  found  her  voice  upon  the  air  ? 

Her  steps  along  the  solitudes  I 


172 


Till:   WANDERER 


Or  where  is  beauty  like  to  hers  ? 

She  draweth  me,  she  draweth  me. 
I  sought  lier  liy  tin-  incense-tree, 
Ami  in  the  alucs,  and  in  the  firs. 

Where  art  Ihou,  0  my  heart's  delight, 
With  dove's  eyes  hidden  in  thy  locks? 

My  hair  is  wet  with  dews  of  night. 
My  feet  are  torn  upon  the  rocks. 

The  cedarn  scents,  the  spices,  fail 

About  me.    Strange  anil  stranger  seems 
The  path.     There  conies  a  sound  of 
streams 

Above  the  darkness  oil  the  vale. 

No  trees  drop  gums  ;  but  poison  flowers 
From  rifts  and  clefts  all  round  me  fall ; 

The  ]>erfunies  of  thy  midnight  bowers, 
The  fragrance  of  thy  chambers,  all 

Is  drawing  me,  is  drawing  me. 

Thy  baths  prepare  ;  anoint  thine  hair  : 
Open  the  window  :  meet  me  there  : 

I  come  to  thee,  to  thee,  to  thee  ! 

Thy  lattices  are  dark,  my  own. 

Thy  doors  are  still.    My  love,  look  out. 
Arise,  my  dove  with  tender  tone. 

The  camphor-clusters  all  about 
Are  whitening.     Dawn  breaks  silently. 

And  all  my  spirit  with  the  dawn 

Expands  ;  and,  slowly,  slowly  drawn, 
Through  mist  and  darkness  moves  toward 
thee. 


MORNING  AND  MEETING. 

ONE  yellow  star,  the  largest  and  the  last 
Of  all  the  lovely  night,  was  fading  slow 
(As  fades  a  happy  moment  in  the  past) 
Out  of  the  changing  east,  when,  yet 

aglow 
With  dreams  her  looks  made  magical, 

from  sleep 
I  waked  ;  and  oped  the  lattice.     Like 

a  rose 
All    the    red-opening    morning    'gan 

disclose 
A  ripened  light  upon  the  distant  steep. 

A  bell  was  chiming  through  the  crystal 

air 
From  the  high  convent-church  upon 

the  hill. 

The  folk  were  loitering  by  to  matin  prayer. 
The  church-bell  called  me  out,   and 
seemed  to  fill 


The  air  with  little  hopes.     I  reached  the 

door 

Before  the  chanted  hymn  began  to  rise, 
And  float  its  liquid  Latin  melodies 

O'er  pious  groups  about  the  marble  floor. 

Breathless,  I  slid  among  the  kneelingfolk. 
A  little  bell  went  tinkling  through  the 

pause 
Of  inward  prayer.     Then  forth  the  low 

chant  broke 
Among    the    glooming    aisles,     that 

through  a  gauze 
Of  sunlight  glimmered. 

Thickly  throbbed  my  blood. 
I  saw,  dark -tressed  in  the  rose-lit  shade, 
Many  a  little  dusk  Italian  maid, 
Kneeling  with  fervent  face  close  where  I 
stood. 

The    morning,    all    a  misty    splendor, 

shook 

Deep  in  the  mighty  window's  flame- 
lit  webs. 
It  touched  the  crowned  Apostle  with  his 

hook, 
And  brightened  where  the  sea  of  jasper 

ebbs 
About  those  Saints'  white  feet  that  stand 

serene 
Each  with  his  legend,  each  in  his  own 

hue 
Attired  :  some  beryl-golden  :  sapphire 

blue 

Some  :  and  some  ruby-red  :  some  emer- 
ald-green. 

Wherefrom,  in  rainbow-wreaths,  the  rich 

light  rolled 

About  the  snowy  altar,  sparkling  clean. 
The   organ   groaned   and   pined,    then, 

growing  bold, 
Revelled  the   cherubs'   golden  wings 

atween. 
And  in  the  light,  beneath  the   music, 

kneeled 
(As  pale  as  some  stone  Virgin  bending 

solemn 

Out  of  the  red  gleam  of  a  granite  col- 
umn) 

Irene  with  claspt  hands  and  cold  lips 
sealed. 

As  one  who,  pausing  on  some  mountain- 
height, 

Above  the  breeze  that  breaks  o'er  vine- 
yard walla, 


IN  ITALY. 


173 


Lean»  to  the  impulse  of  a  wild  delight, 
Bows  earthward,  feels  the  hills  bow 

too,  and  falls  — 
I  dropt  beside  her.     Feeling  seemed  to 

expand 

Andclose :  a  mistof  music  filled  the  air : 
And,  when  it  ceased  in  heaven,  I  was 

aware 

That,  through  a  rapture,  I  had  toucht 
her  hand. 


THE   CLOUD. 

WITH  shape  to  shape,  all  day, 

And  change  to  change,  by  foreland,  firth, 

and  bay, 

The  cloud  comes  down  from  wander- 
ing with  the  wind, 
Through  gloom  and  gleam  across  the 

green  waste  seas  ; 
And,   leaving  the  white  cliff  and  lone 

tower  bare 
To  empty  air, 

Slips  down  the  windless  west,  and 

grows  defined 
In  splendor  by  degrees. 

And,  blown  by  every  wind 
Of  wonder  th  rough  all  regions  of  the  mind, 
From  hope  to  fear,  from  doubt  to  sweet 

despite 
Changing  all  shapes,  and  mingling 

snow  with  fire, 
The  thought  of  her  descends,  sleeps  o'er 

the  bounds 
Of  passion,  grows,  and  rounds 

Its  golden  outlines  in  a  gradual  light 
Of  still  desire. 


ROOT  AND  LEAF. 

THE  love  that  deep  within  me  lies 
Unmoved  abides  in  conscious  power  ; 

Yet  in  the  heaven  of  thy  sweet  eyes 
It  varies  every  hour. 

A  look  from  thee  will  flush  the  cheek  : 
A  word  of  thine  awaken  tears  : 

And,  ah,  in  all  I  do  and  speak 
How  frail  my  love  appears  ! 

In  yonder  tree,  Beloved,  whose  boughs 
Are  household  both  to  earth  and  heaven , 

Whose  leaves  have  murmured  of  our  vows 
To  many  a  balmy  even, 


The  branch  that  wears  the  liveliest  green, 
Is  shaken  by  the  restless  bird  ; 

The  leaves  that  nighest  heaven  are  seen, 
By  every  breeze  are  stirred  : 

But  storms  may  rise,  and  thunders  roll, 
Nor  move  the  giant  roots  below  ; 

So,  from  the  bases  of  the  soul, 
My  love  for  thee  doth  grow. 

It  seeks  the  heaven,  and  trembles  there 
To  every  light  and  passing  breath  ; 

But  from  the  heart  no  storm  can  tear 
Its  rooted  growth  beneath. 


WARNINGS. 

BEWARE,  beware  of  witchery  ! 

And  fall  not  in  the  snare 
That  lurks  and  lies  in  wanton  eyes, 

Or  hides  in  golden  hair  : 
For  the  Witch  hath  sworn  to  catch  thee, 
And  her  spells  are  on  the  air. 
"Thou  art  fair,  fair,  fatal  fair, 
0  Irene  ! 

What  is  it,  what  is  it, 

In  the  whispers  of  the  leaves  ? 
In  the  night-wind,  when  its  bosom, 

With  the  shower  in  it,  grieves  ? 
In  the  breaking  of  the  breaker, 
As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach 

Through  the  silence  of  the  night  ? 

Cordelia  !     Cordelia  ! 
A  warning  in  my  ear  — 
"  Not  here  !  not  here  !  not  here  ! 
But  seek  her  yet,  and  seek  her, 
Seek  her  ever  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach,  and  out  of  sight ! " 

Cordelia  ! 

Eyes  on  mine,  when  none  can  view  me  ! 
And  a  magic  murmur  through  me  ! 
And  a  presence  out  of  Fairyland, 
Invisible,  yet  near  ! 
Cordelia  ! 

"  In  a  time  which  hath  not  been  : 
In  a  land  thou  hast  not  seen  : 
Thou  shalt  find  her,  but  not  now  : 
Thou  shalt  meet  her,  but  not  here  ": 

Cordelia  !     Cordelia  ! 
"  In  the  falling  of  the  snow  : 
In  the  fading  of  the  year  : 

When  the  light  of  hope  is  low, 
And  the  last  red  leaf  is  sere." 
Cordelia  1 


174 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  my  senses  lie  asleep,  fast  asleep, 

0  Irene  ! 
In  the  chambers  of  this  Sorceress,  the 

South, 
In  a  slumber  dim  and  deep, 

She  is  set-king  yet  to  Keep, 
Brimful  of  poisoned  perfumes, 

The  shut  blossom  of  my  youth. 
O  fatal,  fatal  fair  Irene  ! 

But  the  whispering  of  the  leaves, 
And  the  night-wind,  when  it  grieves, 
And  the  breaking  of  the  breaker, 
As  it  breaks  upon  the  beach 

Through  the  silence  of  the  night, 

Cordelia ! 

Whisper  ever  in  my  ear 
"  Not  here  !  not  here  !  not  here  ! 
But  awake,  0  wanderer  !  seek  her, 
Ever  seek  her  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach,  and  out  of  sight ! " 
Cordelia ! 

There  is  a  star  above  me 

Unlike  all  the  millions  round  it. 
There  is  a  heart  to  love  me, 
Although  not  yet  I  have  found  it. 
And  awhile, 

0  Cordelia,  Cordelia ! 
A  light  and  careless  singer, 
In  the  subtle  South  I  linger, 
While  the  blue  is  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  bloom  is  on  the  peach, 
And  the  fire-fly  on  the  night, 

Cordelia  ! 

But  my  course  is  ever  norward, 
And  a  whisper  whispers   "For- 
ward ! " 

Arise,  0  wanderer,  seek  her, 
Seek  her  ever  out  of  reach, 
Out  of  reach  and  out  of  sight ! 
Cordelia  ! 
Out  of  sight, 
Cordelia  !     Cordelia  ! 

Out  of  reach,  out  of  sight, 
Cordelia ! 


A  FANCY. 

How  sweet  were  life,  —  this  life,  if  we 
(My  love  and  I)  might  dwell  together 

Here  beyond  the  summer  sea, 
In  the  heart  of  summer  weather  ! 

With  jKHTipgranates  on  the  bough, 
And  with  lilies  in  the  bower ; 


And  a  sight  of  distant  snow, 
Rosy  in  the  sunset  hour. 

And  a  little  house,  —  no  more 

In  state  than  suits  two  quiet  lovers  ; 

And  a  woodbine  round  the  door, 

Where  the  swallow  builds  and  hovers ; 

With  a  silver  sickle-moon, 

O'er  hot  gardens,  red  with  roses  : 

And  a  window  wide,  in  June, 

For  serenades  when  evening  closes  : 

In  a  chamber  cool  and  simple, 

Trellised  light  from  roof  to  basement ; 
And  a  summer  wind  to  dimple 

The  white  curtain  at  the  casement : 

Where,  if  we  at  midnight  wake, 
A  green  acacia-tree  shall  quiver 

In  the  moonlight,  o'er  some  lake 
Where  nightingales  sing  songs  forever. 

With  a  pine-wood  dark  in  sight ; 

And  a  bean-field  climbing  to  us, 
To  make  odors  faint  at  night 

Where  we  roam  with  none  to  view  us. 

And  a  convent  on  the  hill, 

Through  its  light  green  olives  peeping 
In  clear  sunlight,  and  so  still, 

All  the  nuns,  you  'd  say,  were  sleeping. 

Seas  at  distance,  seen  beneath 
Grated  garden-wildernesses ;  — 

Not  so  far  but  what  their  breath 
At  eve  may  fan  my  darling's  tresses. 

A  piano,  soft  in  sound, 

To  make  music  when  speech  wanders, 
Poets  reverently  bound, 

O'er  whose  pages  rapture  ponders. 

Canvas,  brushes,  hues,  to  catch 
Fleeting  forms  in  vale  or  mountain  : 

And  an  evening  star  to  watch 

When  all 's  still,  save  one  sweet  foun- 
tain. 

Ah  !  I  idle  time  away 

With  impossible  fond  fancies  ! 
For  a  lover  lives  all  day 

In  a  land  of  lone  romances. 

But  the  hot  light  o'er  the  city 
Drops,  —  and  see  !  on  fire  departs. 


IN  ITALY. 


175 


And  the  night  comes  down  in  pity 
To  the  longing  of  our  hearts. 

Bind  thy  golden  hair  from  falling, 
0  my  love,  my  one,  my  own  ! 

T  is  for  thee  the  cuckoo  's  calling 
With  a  note  of  tenderer  tone. 

Up  the  hillside,  near  and  nearer, 
Through  the  vine,  the  corn,  the  flow- 
ers, 

Till  the  veiy  air  grows  dearer, 
Neighboring  our  pleasant  bowers. 

Now  I  pass  the  last  Podere  : 
There,  the  city  lies  behind  me. 

See  her  fluttering  like  a  fairy 
O'er  the  happy  grass  to  find  me  ! 


ONCE. 

A  FALLING  star  that  shot  across 
The  intricate  and  twinkling  dark 

Vanisht,  yet  left  no  sense  of  loss 
Throughout  the  wide  ethereal  arc 

Of  those  serene  and  solemn  skies 
That  round  the  dusky  prospect  rose, 

And  ever  seemed  to  rise,  and  rise, 
Through  regions  of  unreached  repose. 

Far,  on  the  windless  mountain-range, 
One  crimson  sparklet  died  :  the  blue 

Flushed   with  a   brilliance,    faint    and 

strange, 
The  ghost  of  daylight,  dying  too. 

But  half-revealed,  each  terrace  urn 
Glimmered,  where  now,  in  filmy  flight, 

We  watched  return,  and  still  return, 
The  blind  bats  searching  air  for  sight. 

With  sullen  fits  of  fleeting  sound, 
Borne  half  asleep  on  slumbrous  air, 

The  drowsy  beetle  hummed  around, 
And  passed,  and  oft  repassed  us,  there  ; 

Where,  hand  in  hand,  our  looks  alight 
With  thoughts  our  pale  lips  left  un- 
told, 

We  sat,  in  that  delicious  night, 
On  that  dim  terrace,  green  and  old. 

Deep  down,  far  off,  the  city  lay, 
When  forth  from  all  its  spires  was 
swept 


A  music  o'er  our  soul?  ;  and  they 
To  music's  midmost  meanings  leapt ; 

And,  crushing  some  delirious  cry 
Against  each  other's  lips,  we  clung 

Together  silent,  while  the  aky 
Throbbing  with  sound  around  us  hung  •• 

For,  borne  from  bells  on  music  soft, 
That  solemn  hour  went  forth  through 
heaven, 

To  stir  the  starry  airs  aloft, 
And  thrill  the  purple  pulse  of  even. 

0  happy  hush  of  heart  to  heart ! 

0  moment  molten  through  with  bliss  .' 

0  Love,  delaying  long  to  part 
That  first,  fast,  individual  kiss  ! 

Whereon  two  lives  on  glowing  lips 
Hung  claspt,  each  feeling  fold  in  fold, 

Like  daisies  closed  with  crimson  tips, 
That  sleep  about  a  heart  of  gold. 

Was  it  some  drowsy  rose  that  moved  ? 

Some  dreaming  dove's  pathetic  moan  ? 
Or  was  it  my  name  from  lips  beloved  ? 

And  was  it  thy  sweet  breath,  mine  own. 

That  made  me  feel  the  tides  of  sense 
O'er  life's  low  levels  rise  with  might, 

And  pour  my  being  down  the  immense 
Shore  of  some  mystic  Infinite  ? 

"  0,  have  I  found  thee,  my  soul's  soul  ? 

My  chosen  forth  from  time  and  space  I 
And  did  we  then  break  earth's  control  ? 

And  have  I  seen  thee  face  to  face  ? 

"Close,  closer  to  thy  home,  my  breast, 
Closer  thy  darling  arms  enfold  ! 

1  need  such  warmth,  for  else  the  rest 

Of  life  will  freeze  me  dead  with  cold. 

"  Long  was  the  search,  the  effort  long, 

Ere  I  compelled  thee  from  thy  sphere, 
I  know  not  with  what  mystic  song, 

1  know  not  with  what  nightly  tear : 

"  But  thou  art  here,  beneath  whose  eyes 
My  passion  falters,  even  as  some 

Pale  wizard's  taper  sinks,  and  dies, 
When  to  his  spell  a  spirit  is  come. 

"  My  brow  is  pale  with  much  of  pain  : 
Though  I  am  young,  my  youth  is  gone, 

And,  shouldst  thou  leave  me  lone  again, 
I  think  I  could  not  live  alone. 


176 


THE  WANDERER. 


"  As  some  idea,  half  divined, 

With  tumult,  works  within  the  brain 

Of  desolate  genius,  and  the  mind 
Is  vassal  to  imperious  pain, 

"  For  toil  by  day,  for  tears  by  night, 
Till,  in  the  sphere  of  vision  brought, 

Rises  the  beautiful  and  bright 

Predestined,  but  relentless  Thought ; 

"  So,  gathering  up  the  dreams  of  years, 
Thy  love  doth  to  its  destined  seat 

Rise  sovran,  through  the  light  of  tears  — 
Achieved,  accomplisht,  and  complete  ! 

"  I  fear  not  now  lest  any  hour 
Should  chill  the  lips  my  own  have 
prest ; 

For  I  possess  thee  by  the  power 
Whereby  I  am  myself  possest. 

"These   eyes  must   lose   their  guiding 

light : 
These  lips  from  thine,  I  know,  must 

sever : 

0  looks  and  lips  may  disunite, 
But  ever  love  is  love  forever  !  " 


SINCE. 

WORDS  like  to  these  were  said,  or  dreamed 
(How  long  since  !)  on  a  night  divine, 

By  lips  from  which  such  rapture  streamed 
I  cannot  deem  those  lips  were  mine. 

The  day  comes  up  above  the  roofs, 
All  sallow  from  a  night  of  rain  ; 

The  sound  of  feet,  and  wheels,  and  hoofs 
In  the  blurred  street  begins  again  : 

The  same  old  toil  —  no  end  —  no  aim  ! 

The  same  vile  babble  in  my  ears  ; 
The  same  unmeaning  smiles  :  the  same 

Most  miserable  dearth  of  tears. 

The  same  dull  sound  :    the   same  dull 
lack 

Of  lustre  in  the  level  gray  : 
It  seems  like  Yesterday  come  back 

With  his  old  things,  and  not  To-day. 

But  now  and  then  her  name  will  fall 
From  careless  lips  with  little  praise, 

On  this  dry  shell,  and  shatter  all 
The  smooth  indifference  of  my  days. 


They  chatter  of  her —  deem  her  light  ~ 
The  apes  and  liars  !  they  who  know 

As  well  to  sound  the  unfathomed  Night 
As  her  impenetrable  woe  ! 

And  here,  where  Slander's  scorn  is  f-pilt. 

And  gabbling  Folly  clucks  above 
Her  addled  eggs,  it  feels  like  guilt, 

To  know  that  far  away,  my  love 

Her  heart  on  every  heartless  hour 
Is  bruising,  breaking,  for  my  sake  : 

While,  coiled  and  numbed,  and  void  of 

power, 
My  life  sleeps  like  a  winter  snake. 

I  know  that  at  the  mid  of  night, 
(When  she  flings  by  the  glittering  stress 

Of  Pride,  that  mocks  the  vulgar  sight, 
And  fronts  her  chamber's  loneliness,) 

She  breaks  in  tears,  and,  overthrown 
With  sorrowing,  weeps  the  night  away, 

Till  back  to  his  unlovely  throne 
Returns  the  unrelenting  day. 

All  treachery  could  devise  hath  wrought 
Against  us  :  —  letters  robbed  and  read  : 

Snares  hid  in  smiles  :  betrayal  bought : 
And  lies  imputed  to  the  dead. 

I  will  arise,  and  go  to  her, 

And  save  her  in  her  own  despite  ; 

For  in  my  breast  begins  to  stir 
A  pulse  of  its  old  power  and  might. 

They  cannot  so  have  slandered  me 
But  what,  I  know,  if  I  should  call 

And  stretch  my  arms  to  her,  that  she 
Would  rush  into  them,  spite  of  all. 

In  Life's  great  lazar-house,  each  breath 
We  breathe  may  bring  or  spread  the 
pest ; 

And,  woman,  each  may  catch  his  death 
From  those  that  lean  upon  his  breast. 

I  know  how  tender  friends  of  me 

Have  talked  with  broken  hint,   and 

glance  : 

—  The  choicest  flowers  of  calumny, 
That  seem,  like  weeds,  to  spring  from 
chance ; — 

That  small,  small,  imperceptible 
Small  talk,  which  cuts  like  powdered 


IN   ITALY. 


177 


Ground  in  Tophana  —  none  can  tell 
Where  lurks  the  power  the  poison  has  ! 

I  may  be  worse  than  they  would  prove, 
(Who  knows  the  worst  of  any  man  ?) 

But,  right  or  wrong,  be  sure  my  love 
Is  not  what  they  conceive,  or  can. 

Nor  do  I  question  what  thou  art, 
Nor  what  thy  life,  in  great  or  small, 

Thou  art,  I  know,  what  all  my  heart 
Must  beat  or  break  for.     That  is  all. 


A   LOVE-LETTER. 

MY  love,  — •  my  chosen,  —  but  not  mine  ! 

I  send 
My  whole  heart  to  thee  in  these  words 

I  write ; 
So  let  the  blotted  lines,  my  soul's  sole 

friend, 

Lie  upon  thine,  and  there  be  blest  at 
night. 

This  flower,  whose  bruised  purple  blood 

will  stain 
The  page  now  wet  with  the  hot  tears 

that  fall  — 

(Indeed,  indeed,  I  struggle  to  restrain 
This  weakness,   but  the  tears  come, 
spite  of  all !  ) 


I  plucked  it  from  the  branch  you  used  to 

I 


praise, 
The  branch  that  hides  the  wall. 

tend  your  flowers. 
I  keep  the  paths  we  paced  in  happier 

days. 

How  long  ago  they  seem,  those  pleas- 
ant hours. 


The  white  laburnum's  out.    Your  judas- 

tree 
Begins  to  shed  those  crimson  buds  of 

his. 

The  nightingales  sing — ah,  too  joyously  ! 
Who  says  those  birds  are  sad  ?     I  think 
there  is 

That  in  the  books  we  read,  which  deeper 

wrings 
My  heart,    so  they  lie  dusty  on  the 

shelf. 

Ah  me,  1  meant  to  speak  of  other  things 
Less  sad.     In  vain  !  they  bring  me  to 
myself. 

12 


I  know  your  patience.     And  I  would  not 

cast 
New  shade  on  days  so  dark  as  yours 

are  grown 

By  weak  and  wild  repining  for  the  past, 
Since  it  is  past  forever,  0  mine  own  ! 

For  hard  enough  the  daily  cross  you  bear, 
Without  that  deeper  pain  reflection 

brings ; 

And  all  too  sore  the  fretful  household  care, 
Free  of  the  contrast  of  remembered 
things. 

But  ah  !  it  little  profits,  that  we  thrust 
From  all  that  's  said,  what  both  must 

feel,  unnamed. 

Better  to  face  it  boldly,  as  we  must, 
Than  feel  it  in  the  silence,   and  be 
shamed, 

Irene,  I  have  loved  you,  as  men  love 
Light,   music,  odor,  beauty,  love  it- 
self ;  — 

Whatever  is  apart  from,  and  above 
Those  daily  needs  which  deal  with  dust 
and  pelf. 

And  I  had  been  content,  without  one 

thought 
Our  guardian  angels  could  have  blusht 

to  know, 
So  to  have  lived  and  died,  demanding 

nought 

Save,  living  dying,  to  have  loved  you 
so. 

My  youth  was  orphaned,   and  my  age 

will  be 
Childless.     I  have  no  sister.     None, 

to  steal 
One    stray    thought    from    the    many 

thoughts  of  thee, 

Which  are  the  source  of  all  I  think 
and  feel. 

My  wildest  wish  was  vassal  to  thy  will  : 
My  haughtiest  hope,  a  pensioner  on 

thy  smile, 
Which  did  with  light  my  barren  being 

fill, 
As  moonlight  glorifies  some  desert  isle. 

I  never  thought  to  know  what  I  have 

known,  — 

The  rapture,  dear,  of  being  loved  by 
you  : 


178 


THE    WANDERER. 


I  never  thought,  within  my  heart,  to 

own 

One  wish   so  blest  that  you  should 
share  it  too : 

Nor  ever  did  I  deem,  contemplating 

The  many  sorrows  in  this  place  of  pain, 
So  strange  a  sorrow  to  my  life   could 

cling, 

As,  being  thus  loved,  to  be  beloved  in 
vain. 

But  now  we  know  the  best,  the  worst. 

We  have 

Interred,   and  prematurely,   and  un- 
known, 
Our  youth,  our  hearts,  our  hopes,  in  one 

small  grave, 

Whence  we  must  wander,   widowed, 
to  our  own. 

And  if  we  comfort  not  each  other,  what 
Shall  comfort  us,  in  the  dark  days  to 

come  ? 
Not  the  light  laughter  of  the  world,  and 

not 

The  faces  and  the  firelight  of  fond 
home. 

And  so  I  write  to  you ;  and  write,  and 

write, 
For  the  mere  sake  of  writing  to  you, 

dear. 
What  can  I  tell  you,  that  you  know 

not  ?    Night 

Is  deepening  through  the  rosy  atmos- 
phere 

About  the  lonely  casement  of  this  room, 
Which  you  have  left  familiar  with  the 

grace 
That  grows  where  you  have  been.     And 

on  the  gloom 
I  almost  fancy  I  can  see  your  face. 

Not  pale  with  pain,  and  tears  restrained 

for  me, 

As  when  I  last  beheld  it;  but  as  first, 
A  ih cam  of  rapture  and  of  poesy, 

Upon  my  youth,  like  dawn  on  dark,  it 
burst. 

Perchance  I  shall  not  ever  see  again 
That  face.     I  know  that  I  shall  never 
see 

Its  radiant  beauty  as  I  saw  it  then, 
Save  by  this  lonely  lamp  of  memory, 


With  childhood's  starry  graces  lingering 

yet 

1'  the  rosy  orient  of  young  womanhood  ; 
And  eyes  like  woodland  violets  newly  \vct  ; 
And  lips  that  left  their  meaning  in 
my  blood  ! 

I  will  not  say  to  you  what  I  might  say 
To  one  less  worthily  loved,  less  worthy 

love. 
I  will  not  say  .  .  .  "Forget  the  past. 

Be  gay. 

And  let  the  all  ill-judging  world  ap- 
prove 

"  Light  in  your  eyes,  and  laughter  on 

your  lip." 
I  will  not  say ..."  Dissolve  in  thought 

forever 

Our  sorrowful,  but  sacred,  fellowship." 
For  that  would  be,  to  bid  you,  dear, 

_,       dissever 
;/ 

Your  nature  from  its  nobler  heritage 
In  consolations  registered  in  heaven, 

For  griefs  this  world  is  barren  to  assuage, 
And   hopes  to  which,   on  earth,   no 
home  is  given. 

But  I  would  whisper,  what  forevermore 
My  own  heart  whispers  through  the 

wakeful  night,  .  .  . 

"This  grief  is  but  a  shadow,  flung  be- 
fore, 

From  some  refulgent  substance  out  of 
sight." 

Wherefore  it  happens,  in  this  riddling 

world, 
That,  where  sin  came  not,  sorrow  yet 

should  be  ; 
Why   heaven's  most  hurtful   thunders 

should  be  hurled 
At  what  seems  noblest  in  humanity  ; 

And   we   are  punished   for  our  purest 

deeds, 
And     chastened     for     our      holiest 

thoughts  ;  .  .  .  alas  ! 
There   is  no   reason   found   in  all   the 

creeds, 

Why  these  things  are,    nor  whence 
they  come  to  pasa 

But  in  the  heart  of  man,  a  secret  voice 
There  is,  which  Bpeaka,  and  will  not 
be  restrained, 


IN   ITALY. 


179 


Which   cries   to  Grief  .  .  .  "Weep  on, 

while  I  rejoice, 

Knowing  that,  somewhere,  all  will  be 
explained." 

I  will  not   cant  that  commonplace  of 

friends, 
Which    never    yet    hath    dried    one 

mourner's  tears, 
Nor  say  that  griefs  slow  wisdom  makes 

amends 
For  broken  hearts  and  desolated  years. 

For  who  would  barter  all  he  hopes  from 
•  life, 

To  be  a  little  wiser  than  his  kind  ? 
Who    arm    his    nature    for    continued 

strife, 

Where  all  he  seeks  for  hath  been  left 
behind  ? 

But  I  would  say,   0  pure  and  perfect 

pearl 
Which  I  have  dived  so  deep  in  life  to 

find, 
Locked  in*  my  heart  thou  liest.     The 

wave  may  curl, 

The  wind  may  wail  above  us.     Wave 
and  wind, 

What  are  their  storm  and  strife  to  me 

and  you  ? 

No  strife  can  mar  the  pure  heart's  in- 
most calm. 
This  life  of  ours,  what  is  it  ?     A  very 

few 

Soon-ended    years,    and    then,  —  the 
ceaseless  psalm, 

And  the  eternal  sabbath  of  the  soul ! 
Hush  !  .  .  .  while   I  write,   from   the 

dim  Carmine 

The  midnight  angelus  begins  to  roll, 
And  float  athwart  the  darkness  up  to 
me. 

My  messenger  (a  man  by  danger  tried) 
Waits  in  the  courts  below  ;  and  ere 

our  star 
Upon  the  forehead  of  the   dawn*hath 

died, 
Beloved  one,  this  letter  will  be  far 

Athwart  the  mountain,  and  the  mist,  to 

you. 

I  know  each  robber  hamlet.     I  know 
all 


This  mountain  people.     I  hare  friends, 

both  true 

And  trusted,  sworn  to  aid  whate'er  be- 
fall. 

I  have  a  bark  upon  the  gulf.     And  I, 

If  to  my  heart  I  yielded  in  this  hour, 
Might   say.  .  .  "Sweet   fellow-sufferer, 

let  us  fly  ! 

I  know  a  little  isle  which  doth  em- 
bower 

"  A  home  where  exiled  angels  might  for- 
bear 
Awhile  to  mourn  for  paradise."  .  .  . 

But  no  ! 
Never,  whate'er  fate  now  may  bring  us, 

dear, 
Shalt  thou  reproach  me  for  that  only 


Which  even  love  is  powerless  to  console  ; 
Which  dwells  where  duty  dies  :  and 

haunts  the  tomb 

Of  life's  abandoned  purpose  in  the  soul ; 
And  leaves  to  hope,  in  heaven  itself, 
no  room. 

Man  cannot  make,  but  may  ennoble,  fate, 

By  nobly  bearing  it.     So  let  us  trust, 

Not  to  ourselves,  but  God,  and  calmly 

wait 

Love's  orient,  out  of  darkness  and  of 
dust. 

Farewell,  and  yet  again  farewell,  and  yet 
Never  farewell,  —  if  farewell  mean  to 

fare 

Alone  and  disunited.     Love  hath  set 
Our  days,  in  music,  to  the  self-same 
air ; 

And  I  shall  feel,  wherever  we  may  be, 
Even  though  in  absence  and  an  alien 

clime, 

The  shadow  of  the  sunniness  of  thee, 
Hovering,    in    patience,    through    a 
clouded  time. 

Farewell !     The  dawn  is  rising,  and  the 

light 

Is  making,  in  the  east,  a  faint  en- 
deavor 
To    illuminate    the    mountain    peaks. 

Good  night. 

Thine  own,  and  only  thine,  my  love, 
forever. 


180 


TIIK    \V.\NHF.RER. 


CONDEMNED  ONES. 

ABOVE  thy  child  I  saw  thee  bend. 
Where  in  tliat  .silent  room  we  sat  apart. 
1  watched  tin-  involuntary  tear  descend  ; 
The  firelight  was  not  all  so  dim,   my 

friend, 
But  I  could  read  thy  heart. 

Yet  when,  in  that  familiar  room, 
I  strove,  so  moveless  in  my  place, 
To  look  with  comfoit  in  thy  face, 
That  child's  young  smile  was  all  that  I 

could  see 
Ever    between   us    in    the    thoughtful 

gloom,  — 

Ever  between  thyself  and  me,  — 
With  its  bewildering  grace. 

Life  is  not  what  it  might  have  been, 

Nor  are  we  what  we  would  ! 

And  we  must  meet  with  smiling  mien, 

And  part  in  careless  mood, 

Knowing  that  each  retains  unseen, 

In  cells  of  sense  subdued, 

A  little  lurking  secret  of  the  blood  — 

A  little  serpent-secret  rankling  keen  — 

That  makes  the  heart  its  food. 

Yet  is  there  much  for  grateful  tears,  if 

sad  ones, 
And   Hope's    young   orphans    Memory 

mothers  yet ; 
So  let  them  go,  the  sunny  days  we  had 

once, 
Our  night  hath  stars  that  will  not  ever 

set. 
And  in  our  hearts  are  harps,  albeit  not 

glad  ones, 
Yet  not  all  unmelodious,  through  whose 

strings 
The  night-winds  murmur  their  familiar 

things, 

Unto  a  kindred  sadness  :  the  sea  brings 
The  spirits  of  its  solitude,  with  wings 
Folden  about  the  music  of  its  lyre, 
Thrilled  vith  deep  duals  by  sublime  de- 
sire, 
Which  never  can  attain,  yet  ever  must 

aspire, 
And  glonfy  regret. 

What  might  have  been,  I  know,  is  not : 

What  must  be,  must  be  borne  : 

But,  ah  !    what   hath  been  will  not  be 

forgot, 
Never,  oh  !  never,  in  the  years  to  follow  ! 


Though  all  their  summers  light  a  waste 
forlorn, 

Yet  shall  there  be  (hid  from  the  careless 
swallow 

And  sheltered  from  the  bleak  wind  in 
the  thorn) 

In  Memory's  mournful  but  beloved  hol- 
low, 

One  dear  green  spot ! 

Hope,  the  high  will  of  Heaven 
To  help  us  hath  not  given, 
But  more  than  unto  most  of  consolation  : 
Since  heart  from  heart  may  borrow 
Healing  for  deep  heart-sorrow, 
And  draw  from  yesterday,  to  soothe  to- 
morrow, 

The  sad,  sweet  divination 
Of  that  unuttered  sympathy,  which  is 
Love's  sorceress,  and  for  Love's  dear  sake, 
About  us  both  such  spells  doth  make, 
As  none  can  see,  and  none  can  break, 
And  none  restrain  ;  —  a  secret  pain 
Claspt  to  a  secret  bliss  ! 

A  tone,  a  touch, 

A  little  look,  may  be  so  much  ! 

Those  moments  brief,  nor  often, 

When,  leaning  laden  breast  to  breast, 

Pale  cheek  to  cheek,  life,  long  represt, 

May  gush  with  tears  that  leave  half  blest 

The  want  of  bliss  they  soften. 

The  little  glance  across  the  crowd, 

None  else  can  read,  wherein  there  lies 

A  life  of  love  at  once  avowed  — 

The  embrace  of  pining  eyes.  .  .  . 

So  little  more  had  made  earth  heaven, 

That  hope  to  help  us  was  not  given  ! 


THE  STORM. 

BOTH  hollow  and  hill  were  as  dumb  as 

death, 
While  the  skies  were  silently  changing 

form  ; 

And  the  dread  forecast  of  the  thunder- 
storm 

Made  the  crouched   land   hold  in  its 
•  breath. 

But  the  monstrous  vapor  as  yet  was  un- 

liven 

That  was  breeding  the  thunder  and 

lightning  and  rain  ; 
And  the  wind  that  was  waiting  to  ruin 

the  plain 
Was  yet  fast  in  some  far  hold  of  heaven. 


IN   ITALY. 


181 


So,  in  absolute  absence  of  stir  or  strife, 
The  red  land  lay  as  still  as  a  drifted 

leaf: 
The  roar  of  the  thunder  had  been  a 

relief, 
To  the  calm  of  that  death-brooding  life. 

At  the  wide-flung  casement  she  stood 

full  height, 
With  her  long  rolling  hair  tumbled 

all  down  her  back  ; 
And,  against  the  black  sky's  super- 
natural black, 
Her  white  neck  gleamed  scornfully  white. 

I  could  catch  not  a  gleam  of  her  angered 

eyes 
(She  was  sullenly  watching  the  slow 

storm  roll), 
But  I  felt  they  were  drawing  down 

into  her  soul 
The  thunder  that  darkened  the  skies. 

And  how  could  I  feign,  in  that  heartless 

gloom, 
To  be  carelessly  reading  that  stupid 

page? 
What  harm,  if  I  flung  it  in  anguish 

and  rage, 
Her  book,  to  the  end  of  the  room  ? 

"  And  so,  do  we  part  thus  forever  ? " 

...  I  said, 

"  0,  speak  only  one  word,  and  I  par- 
don the  rest ! " 
She  drew  her  white  scarf  tighter  over 

her  breast, 

But  she  never  once  turned  round  her 
head. 

"In   this   wicked   old  world   is   there 

naught  to  disdain  ? 
Or  "  —  I  groaned  —  "are  those  dark 

eyes  such  deserts  of  blindness, 
That,   O  Woman  !   your   heart  must 

hoard  all  its  unkindness, 
For  the  man  on  whose  breast  it  hath 
lain? 

"Leave  it  nameless,  the  grave  of  the 

grief  that  is  past ; 
Be  its  sole  sign  the  silence  we  keep 

for  its  sake. 
I   have  loved  you  —  lie  still  in  my 

heart  till  it  break  : 
As  I  loved,  I  must  love  to  the  last. 


"  Speak  !  the  horrible  silence  is  stifling 

my  soul." 
She  turned  on  me  at  once  all  the  storm 

in  her  eyes  ; 
And  I  heard  the  low  thunder  aloof  in 

the  skies, 
Beginning  to  mutter  and  roll. 

She  turned  — •  by-  the  lightning  revealed 

in  its  glare, 
And  the  tempest  had  clothed  her  with 

terror  :  it  clung 
To  the  folds  of  her  vaporous  garments, 

and  hung 
In  the  heaps  of  her  heavy  wild  hair. 

But  one  word  broke  the  silence ;   but 

one  ;  and  it  fell 
With  the  weight  of  a  mountain  upon 

me.     Next  moment 
The  fierce  levin  flashed  in  my  eyes. 

From  my  comment 

She  was  gone  when  I  turned.     Who  can 
tell 

How  I  got  to  my  home  on  the  mountain  ? 

I  know 
That   the  thunder  was   rolling,   the 

lightning  still  flashing, 
The  great  bells  were  tolling,  my  very 

brain  crashing 
In  my  head,  a  few  hours  ago  : 

Then  all  hushed.     In  the  distance  the 

blue  rain  receded  ; 
And   the    fragments    of   storm   were 

spread  out  on  the  hills  ; 
Hard  by,  from  my  lattice,  I  heard  the 

far  rills 

Leaping  down  their  rock-channels,  wild- 
weeded. 

The  round,  red  moon  was  yet  low  in  the 

air.  .  .  . 
0,  I  knew  it,  foresaw  it,  and  felt  it, 

before 
I  heard  her  light  hand  on  the  latch  of 

the  door ! 
When  it  opened  at  last,  —  she  was  there. 

Childlike,   and  wistful,   and  sorrowful- 
eyed, 
With  the  rain  on  her  hair,  and  the 

rain  on  her  cheek  ; 
She  knelt  down,  with  her  fair  forehead 

fallen  and  meek 
In  the  light  of  the  moon  at  my  side. 


182 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  she  called  me  by  every  caressing  old 

name 
She  of  old  had  invented  and  chosen 

for  me  : 
She  crouched  at  my  feet,  with  her 

cheek  on  my  knee, 
Like  a  wild  tiling  grown  suddenly  tame. 

In  the  world  there  are  women  enough, 

maids  or  mothers ; 
Yet,  in  multiplied  millions,  I  never 

should  find 
The  symbol  of  aught  in  her  face,  or 

her  mind. 
She  has  nothing  in  common  with  others. 

And  she  loves  me  !    This  morning  the 

earth,  pressed  beneath 
Her  light  foot,  keeps  the  print.    'T  was 

no  vision  last  night, 
For  the  lily  she  dropped,  as  she  went, 

is  yet  white 
With  the  dew  on  its  delicate  sheath  ! 


THE  VAMPYRE. 

I  FOUND  a  corpse,  with  golden  hair, 
Of  a  maiden  seven  months  dead. 

But  the  face,  with  the  death  in  it,  still 

was  fair, 

And  the  lips  with  their  love  were  red. 
Rose  leaves  on  a  snow-drift  shed, 
Blood-drops  by  Adonis  bled, 
Doubtless  were  not  so  red. 

I  combed  her  hair  into  curls  of  gold, 

And   I  kissed  her   lips   till   her  lips 

were  warm, 
And  I  bathed  her  body  in  moonlightcold, 

Till  she  grew  to  a  living  form  : 
Till  she  stood  up  bold  to  a  magic  of  old, 

And  walked  to  a  muttered  charm  — 

Life-like,  without  alarm. 

And  she  walks  by  me,  and  she  talks  by  me, 
Evermore,  night  and  day  ; 

For  she  loves  me  so,  that,  wherever  I  go, 
She  follows  me  all  the  way  — 
This  corpse  —  you  would  almost  say 
There  pined  a  soul  in  the  clay. 

Her  eyes  are  so  bright  at  the  dead  of 

night 

That  they  keep  me  awake  with  dread  ; 
Ami  my  lite-Mood  fails  iu  my  veins,  and 

pales 


At  the  sight  of  her  lips  so  red  : 
For  her  face  is  as  white  as  the  pillow  by 

night 

Where  she  kisses  me  on  my  bed  : 
All  her  gold  hair  outspread  — 
Neither  alive  nor  dead. 

I  would  that  this  woman's  head 
Were  less  golden  about  the  hair  : 

I  would  her  lips  wen;  less  red, 
And  her  face  less  deadly  fair. 
For  this  is  the  worst  to  1  > 
How  came  that  redness  there  ? 

'T  is  my  heart,  be  sure,  she  eats  for  her 

food  ; 

And  it  makes  one's  whole  flesh  erecji 
To  think  that  she  drinks  and  drains  my 

blood 

Unawares,  when  I  am  asleep. 
How  else  could  those  red  lips  keep 
Their  redness  so  damson-deep  ? 

There's  a  thought  like  a  serpent,  slips 

Ever  into  my  heart  and  head,  — 
There  are  plenty  of  women,  alive  and 

human, 
One  might  woo,   if  one  wished,  and 

wed  — 
Women  with  hearts,  and  brains, — ay, 

and  lips 
Not  so  very  terribly  red. 

But  to  house  with  a  corpse  —  and  she  so 

fair, 
With  that  dim,  unearthly,  golden  hair, 

And  those  sad,  serene,  blue  eyes, 
With  their  looks  from  who  knows  where, 
Which  Death  has  made  so  wise, 
With  the  grave's  own  secret  there  — 
It  is  more  than  a  man  can  bear  ! 

It  were  better  for  me,  ere  I  came  nigh  her, 

This  corpse  —  ere  I  looked  upon  her, 

Had  they  burned  my  body  in  flame  and  fire 

With  a  sorcerer's  dishonor. 
For  when    the   Devil   hath   made    his 

lair, 
And  lurks  in  the  eyes  of  a  fair  young 

woman 
(To  grieve  a  man's  soul  with  her  golden 

hair, 
And  break  his  heart,  if  his  heart  be 

human), 

Would  not  a  saint  despair 
To  be  Nived  by  fast  or  prayer 
From  perdition  made  so  fair  I 


IN   ITALY. 


183 


CHANGE. 

SHE  is  unkind,  unkind  ! 

On  the  windy  hill,  to-day, 

I  sat  in  the  sound  of  the  wind. 

I  knew  what  the  wind  would  say. 

It  said  ...  or  seemed  to  my  mind  .  .  . 

"  The  flowers  are  falling  away. 

The    summer,"  ...  it    said,  .  .  .  "will 

not  stay, 
And  Love  will  be  left  behind. " 

The  swallows  were  swinging  themselves 
In  the  leaden-gray  air  aloft ; 
Flitting  by  tens  and  twelves, 
And  returning  oft  and  oft ; 
Like  the  thousand  thoughts  in  me, 
That  went,  and  came,  and  went, 
Not  letting  me  even  be 
Alone  with  my  discontent. 

The  hard-vext  weary  vane 
Rattled,  and  moaned  and  was  still, 
In  the  convent  over  the  plain, 
By  the  side  of  the  windy  hill. 
It  was  sad  to  hear  it  complain, 
So  fretful,  and  weak,  and  shrill, 
Again,  and  again,  and  in  vain, 
While  the  wind  was  changing  his  will. 

I  thought  of  our  walks  last  summer 
By  the  convent-walls  so  green  ; 
Of  the  first  kiss  stolen  from  her, 
With  no  one  near  to  be  seen. 
1  thought  (as  we  wandered  on, 
Each  of  us  waiting  to  speak) 
How  the  daylight  left  us  alone, 
And  left  his  last  light  on  her  cheek. 

The  plain  was  as  cold  and  gray 
(With  its  villas  like  glimmering  shells) 
As  some  north- ocean  bay. 
All  dumb  in  the  church  were  the  bells. 
In  the  mist,  half  a  league  away, 
Lay  the  little  white   house   where   she 
dwells. 

I  thought  of  her  face  so  bright, 
By  the  firelight  bending  low 
O'er  her  work  so  neat  and  white  ; 
Of  her  singing  so  soft  and  slow  ; 
Of  her  tender-toned  "  Good-night"  ; 
But  a  very  few  nights  ago.    . 

O'er  the  convent  doors,  I  could  see 
A  pale  and  sorrowful-eyed 
Madonna  looking  at  me, 
As  when  Our  Lord  first  died. 


There  was  not  a  lizard  or  spider 

To  be  seen  on  the  broken  walls. 

The  ruts,  with  the  rain,  had  grown  wider 

And  blacker  since  last  night's  falls. 

O'er  the  universal  dulness 

There  broke  not  a  single  beam. 

I  thought  how  my  love  at  its  fulness 

Had  changed  like  a  change  in  a  dream. 

The  olives  were  shedding  fast 
About  me,  to  left  and  right, 
In  the  lap  of  the  scornful  blast 
Black  berries  and  leaflets  white. 
I  thought  of  the  many  romances 
One  wintry  word  can  blight ; 
Of  the  tender  and  timorous  i'ancies 
By  a  cold  look  put  to  flight. 

How  many  noble  deeds 
Strangled  perchance  at  their  birth! 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  weeds 
Came  up  with  the  steam  of  the  earth, 
From  the  red,  wet  ledges  of  soil, 
And  the  sere  vines,  row  over  row,  — 
And  the  vineyard-men  at  their  toil, 
Who  sang  in  the  vineyard  below. 

Last  Spring,  while  I  thought  of  her  here, 
I  found  a  red  rose  on  the  hill. 
There  it  lies,  withered  and  sere  ! 
Let  him  trust  to  a  woman  who  will. 

I  thought  how  her  words  had  grown  colder, 
And  her  fair  face  colder  still, 
From  the  hour  whose  silence  had  told  her 
What  has  left  me  heart-broken  and  ill ; 
And  "Oh  !  "     I  thought,  ...  "if  I  be- 
hold her 
Walking  there  with  him  under  the  hill  !  " 

O'er  the  mist,  from  the  mournful  city 
The  blear  lamps  gleamed  aghast,  — 
—  "  She  has  neither  justice,  nor  pity," 
I  thought,  .  .  .  "all 's  over  at  last  !  " 
The  cold  eve  came.     One  star 
Through  a  ragged  gray  gap  forlorn 
Fell  down  from  some  region  afar, 
And  sickened  as  soon  as  born. 
I  thought,  "  How  long  and  how  lone 
The  years  will  seem  to  be, 
When  the  last  of  her  looks  is  gone, 
And  my  heart  is  silent  in  me  !  " 

One  streak  of  scornful  gold, 

In  the  cloudy  and  billowy  west, 

Burned  with  a  light  as  cold 

As  love  in  a  much-wronged  breast. 


184 


TIIK    Y\  ANUKKKK. 


I  thought  of  her  faee  so  fnir  ; 

Of  her  )>ei  feet  luisiiiii  and  arm  ; 

Of  her  deep  sweet  eyes  Mini  hair  ; 

Of  her  bit-Mlli  so  pure  and  warm  ; 

Of  her  foot,  so  line  and  fairy 

Through  the  meadows  where  she  would 

pass  ; 

Of  t lie  sweep  of  her  skirts  so  airy 
And  fragrant,  over  the  grass. 

I  thought  ..."  Can  I  live  without  her 

Whatever  she  do,  or  say  ? " 

I  thought.  .  .  "Can  I  dare  to  doubt  her, 

Now  when  I  have  given  away 

My  whole  self,  body  and  spirit, 

To  keep,  or  to  cast  aside, 

To  dower  or  disinherit,  — 

To  use  as  she  may  decide  ?  " 

The  West  was  beginning  to  close 
O'er  the  last  light  burning  there. 
I  thought ..."  And  when  that  goes, 
The  dark  will  be  everywhere  !  " 

Oh  !  well  is  it  hidden  from  man 
Whatever  the  Future  may  bring. 
The  bells  in  the  church  began 
On  a  sudden  to  sound  and  swing. 
The  chimes  on  the  gust  were  caught, 
And  rolled  up  the  windy  height. 
I  rose,  and  returned,  and  thought  .  .  . 
"  I  SHALL  NOT  SEE  HER  TO-NIGHT." 


A  CHAIN  TO  WEAR. 

AWAY  !  away  !    The  dream  was  vain. 

We  meet  too  soon,  or  meet  too  late  : 
Still  wear,  as  best  you  may,  the  chain 

Your  own  hands  forged  about  your  fate, 
Who  could  not  wait ! 

What  !  .  .  .  you  had  given  your  life  away 
Before    you    found    what    most    life 

misses  ? 

Forsworn  the  bridal  dream,  you  say, 
Of  that  ideal  love,  whose  kisses 
Are  vain  as  this  is  ! 

Well,  I  have  left  upon  your  mouth 
The  seal  I  know  must  burn  there  yet ; 

My  claim  is  set  upon  your  youth  ; 
My  sign  upon  your  soul  is  set  : 
Dare  you  forget  ? 

And  you  '11  haunt,  I  know,  where  music 

plays, 
Yet  find  a  pain  in  music's  tone  ; 


You  '11    blush,  of  course,   when    othrri 

pnJaa 

That  beauty  scarcely  now  your  own. 
What 's  done,  is  done  ! 

For  me,  you  say,  the,  world  is  wide,  — 
Too  wide  to  find  the  grave  I  seek  ! 

Enough  !  whatever  now  betide, 

No  greater  pang  can  blanch  my  rheek. 
Hush  !  ...  do  not  s}>eak. 


SILENCE. 

WORDS  of  fire,  and  words  of  scorn, 
I  have  written.     Let  them  go  ! 

Words  of  love  —  heart-broken,  torn, 
With  this  strong  and  sudden  woe. 

All  my  scorn,  she  could  not  doubt, 

Was  but  love  turned  inside  out. 

Silence,  silence,  still  unstirred  ; 

Long,  unbroken,  unexplained  : 
Not  one  word,  one  little  word, 

Even  to  show  her  touched  or  pained  : 
Silence,  silence,  all  unbroken  : 
Not  a  sound,  a  sign,  a  token. 

Well,  let  silence  gather  round 
All  this  shattered  life  of  mine. 

Shall  I  break  it  by  a  sound  ? 
Let  it  grow,  and  be  divine  — 

Divine  as  that  Prometheus  kept 

When   for    his    sake    the    sea-nymphs 
wept. 

Let  silence  settle,  still  and  deep  ; 

As  the  mist,  the  thunder-cloud, 
O'er  the  lonely  blasted  steep, 

Which  the  red  bolt  hath  not  bowed, 
Settle,  to  drench  out  the  star, 
And  cancel  the  blue  vales  afar. 

In  this  silence  I  will  sheathe 
The  sharp  edge  and  point  of  all ! 

Not  a  sigh  my  Ups  shall  breathe  ; 
Not  a  groan,  whate'er  befall. 

And  let  this  s  worded  silence  be 

A  fence  'twixt  prying  fools  and  me. 

Let  silence  be  about  her  name, 
And  o'er  the  things  which  once  have 
been  : 

Let  silence  cover  up  my  shame, 
And  annul  that  face,  once  seen 

In  fatal  hours,  and  all  the  light 

Of  those  eyes  extinguish  quite. 


IN   ITALY. 


185 


In  silence,  I  go  forth  alone 

O'er  the  solemn  mystery 
Of  the  deeds  which,  to  be  done, 

Yet  undone  in  the  future  lie. 
I  peer  in  Time's  high  nests,  and  there 
Espy  the  callow  brood  of  Care, 

The  fledgeless  nurslings  of  Regret, 
With  beaks  forever  stretched  for  food  : 

But  why  should  I  forecount  as  yet 
The  ravage  of  that  vulture  brood  ? 

O'er  all  these  things  let  silence  stay, 

And  lie,  like  snow,  a.long  my  way. 

Let  silence  in  this  outraged  heart 
Abide,  and  seal  these  lips  forever  ; 

Let  silence  dwell  with  me  apart 
Beside  the  ever-babbling  river 

Of  that  loud  life  in  towns,  that  runs 

Blind  to  the  changes  of  the  suns. 

Ah  !  from  what  most  mournful  star, 
Wasting  down  on  evening's  edge, 

Or  what  barren  isle  afar 

Flung  by  on  some  bare  ocean  ledge, 

Came  the  wicked  hag  to  us, 

That  changed  the  fairy  revel  thus  ? 

There  were  sounds  from  sweet  guitars 
Once,  and  lights  from  lamps  of  amber  ; 

Both  went  up  among  the  stars 

From  many  a  perfumed  palace-  cham- 
ber : 

Suddenly  the  place  seemed  dead  ; 

Light  and  music  both  were  fled. 

Darkness  in  each  perfumed  chamber  ; 

Darkness,  silence,  in  the  stars  ; 
Darkness  on  the  lamps  af  amber  ; 

Silence  in  the  sweet  guitars  : 
Darkness,  silence,  evermore 
Guard  empty  chamber,  moveless  door. 


NEWS. 
4- 

NEWS,     news,     news,     my    gossiping 
friends  ! 

I  have  wonderful  news  to  tell. 
A  lady,  by  me,  her  compliments  sends  ; 

And  this  is  the  news  from  Hell : 

The  Devil  is  dead.     He  died  resigned, 
Though  somewhat  opprest  by  cares  ; 

But  his  wife,  my  friends,  is  a  woman  of 

mind, 
And  looks  after  her  lord's  affairs. 


I  have  just  come  back  from  that  wonder- 

.    ful  place, 
And  kist  hands  with  the  Queen  down 

there  ; 

But  I  cannot  describe  Her  Majesty's  face, 
It  has  filled  me  so  with  despair. 

The  place  is  not  what  you  might  sup- 
pose : 

It  is  worse  in  some  respects. 
But  all  that  I  heard  there,  I  must  not 

disclose, 
For  the  lady  that  told  me  objects. 

The  laws  of  the  land  are  not  Salique, 

But  the  King  never  dies,  of  course  ; 
The  new  Queen  is  young,  and  pretty, 

and  chic, 

There  are  women,  I  think,  that  are 
worse. 

But  however  that  be,  one  thing  I  know, 

And  this  I  am  free  to  tell ; 
The  Devil,  my  friends,  is  a  woman,  just 
now  ; 

'T  is  a  woman  that  reigns  in  Hell. 


COUNT  RINALDO  RINALDI. 

'T  is  a  dark-purple,  moonlighted  mid- 
night : 

There  is  music  about  on  the  air. 
And,    where,    through    the  water,    fall 
flashing 

The  oars  of  each  gay  gondolier, 
The  lamp-lighted  ripples  are  dashing, 

In  the  musical  moonlighted  air, 
To  the  music,  in  merriment ;  washing, 

And  splashing,  the  black  marble  stair 
That  leads  to  the  last  garden-terrace, 

Where  many  a  gay  cavalier 
And  many  a  lady  yet  loiter, 

Round  the  Palace  in  festival  there. 

'T  is  a  terrace  all  paven  mosaic,  — 

Black  marble,  and  green  malachite  ; 
Round  an  ancient  Venetian  Palace, 

Where  the  windows  with  lampions  are 

bright. 
'T  is  an  evening  of  gala  and  festival, 

Music,  and  passion,  and  light. 
There  is  love  in  the  nightingales'  throats, 

That  sing  in  the  garden  so  well : 
There  is  love  in  the  face  of  the  moon  ; 


186 


THE   WANDERER. 


There  is  love  in  the  warm  languid 
glances 

Of  the  dancers  adown  the  dim  dances  : 
There  is  love  in  the  low  languid  notes 

That  rise  into  rapture,  and  swell, 
From  viol,  and  flute,  and  bassoon. 

The  tree  that  bends  down  o'er  the  water 

So  Murk,  is  a  black  cypress-tree. 
And  the  statue,  there,  under  the  terrace, 

MiiemoM  nc's  statue  must  be. 
TIi ere  comes  a  black  gondola  slowly 

To  the  Palace  in  festival  there  : 
And  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

II. is  mounted  the  black  marble  stair. 

There  was  nothing  but  darkness,   and 
midnight, 

And  tempest,  and  storm,  in  the  breast 
Of  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi, 

As  his   foot   o'er    the    black   marble 

prest :  — 

The  glimmering  black  marble  stair 
Where  the  weed  in  the  green  ooze  is 

clinging, 
That  leads  to  the  garden  so  fair, 

Where    the    nightingales    softly    are 

singing,  — 
Where  the  minstrels  new  music  are 

stringing, 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  prepare. 

There  rustles  a  robe  of  white  satin  : 
There  's  a  footstep  falls  light  by  the 
stair : 

There  rustles  a  robe  of  white  satin  : 
There 's  a  gleaming  of  soft  golden  hair  : 

And  the  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli 

Stands  near  the  cypress-tree  there,  — 
Near  Mnemosyne's  statue  so  fair,  — 

The  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 

With  the  light  in  her  long  golden 
hair. 

And  the  nightingales  softly  are  singing 
In  the  mellow  and  moonlighted  air  ; 

And  the  minstrels  their  viols  are  string- 
ing; 
And  the  dancers  for  dancing  prepare. 

"  Siora,"  the  Count  said  unto  her, 

"The  shafts  of  ill-fortune  pursue  me  ; 
The  old  grief  grows  newer  and  newer, 

The  old  pangs  are  never  at  rest  ; 

And  the  foes  that  have  sworn  to  undo 
me 

Have  left  me  no  peace  in  my  breast. 


They  have  slandered,  and  wronged,  and 

maligned  me  : 
Though  they  broke  not  my  sword  in 

my  hand, 

They  have  broken  my  heart  in  my  bosom 
And  sorrow  my  youth  has  unmanned. 
But  I  love  you,  Irene,  Irene, 

With  such  love  as  the  wretched  alone 
Can  feel  from  the  desert  within  them 

Which  only  the  wretched  have  known  ! 
And  the  heart  of  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Dreads,    Lady,    no   frown   but   your 

own. 
To  others  be  all  that  you  are,  love  — 

A  lady  more  lovely  than  most  ; 
To  me  —  be  a  fountain,  a  star,  love, 
That  lights  to  his  haven  the  lost ; 
A  shrine  that  with  tender  devotion, 
The  mariner  kneeling,  doth  deck 
With  the  dank  weeds  yet  dripping  from 

ocean, 

And   the   last  jewel  saved  from  the 
wreck. 

"None  heeds  us,  beloved  Irene  ! 

None  will  mark  if  we  linger  or  fly. 
Amid  all  the  mad  masks  in  yon  revel, 

There  is  not  an  ear  or  an  eye,  — 
Not  one,  —  that  will  gaze  or  will  listen  ; 

And,  .save  the  small  star  in  the  sky 
Which,  to  light  us,  so  softly  doth  glisten, 

There  is  none  will  pursue  us,  Irene. 

0  love  me,  0  save  me,  I  die  ! 
I  am  thine,  0  be  mine,  0  beloved  ! 

"  Fly  with  me,  Irene,  Irene  ! 

The  moon  drops  :  the  morning  is  near, 
My  gondola  waits  by  the  garden 

And  fleet  is  my  own  gondolier  !  " 
What  the  Lady  Irene  Ricasoli, 

By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone, 
Where   she    leaned,    'neath    the    black 
cypress-tree, 

To  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Replied  then,  it  never  was  known, 
And  known,  now,  it  never  will  be. 

But  the  moon    hath    been  melted    in 

morning  : 
And  the  lamps  in   the  windows  are 

dead  : 

And  the  gay  cavaliers  from  the  terrace, 
And  the  ladies  thev  laughed  with,  are 

fled  ; 

And  the  music  is  husht  in  the  viols  : 
And  the  minstrels,  and  dancers,  are 
gone; 


IN   ITALY. 


187 


And  the  nightingales  now  in  the  garden, 
From  singing  have  ceased,  one  by  one  : 

But  the  Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Still  stands,  where  he  last  stood,  alone, 

'Neath  the  black  cypress-tree,  near  the 
water, 

By  Mnemosyne's  statue  in  stone. 

O'er  his  spirit  was  silence  and  midnight, 

In  his  breast  was  the  calm  of  despair. 
He  took,  with  a  smile,  from  a  casket 

A  single  soft  curl  of  gold  hair,  — 

A  wavy  warm  curl  of  gold  hair, 
And  into  the  black-bosomed  water 

He  flung  it  athwart  the  black  stair. 
The  skies  they  were  changing  above  him  ; 

The  dawn,  it  came  cold  on  the  air ; 
He  drew  from  his  bosom  a  kerchief — 

"Would,"  he  sighed,  "that  her  face 
was  less  fair  ! 

That  her  face  was  less  hopelessly  fair." 
And  folding  the  kerchief,  he  covered 

The  eyes  of  Mnemosyne  there. 


THE  LAST  MESSAGE. 

FLING  the  lattice  open, 

And  the  music  plain  you  '11  hear ; 
Lean  out  of  the  window, 

And  you  '11  see  the  lamplight  clear. 

There,  you  see  the  palace 
Where  the  bridal  is  to-night. 

You  may  shut  the  window. 
Come  here,  to  the  light. 

Take  this  portrait  with  you, 

Look  well  before  you  go. 
She  can  scarce  be  altered 

Since  a  year  ago. 

Women's  hearts  change  lightly, 
(Truth  both  trite  and  olden  !) 

But  blue  eyes  remain  blue  ; 
Golden  hair  stays  golden. 

Once  I  knew  two  sisters  : 

One  was  dark  and  grave 
As  the  tomb  ;  one  radiant 

And  changeful  as  the  wave. 

Now  away,  friend,  quickly  ! 

Mix  among  the  masks  : 
Say  you  are  the  bride's  friend, 

If  the  bridegroom  asks. 


If  the  bride  have  dark  hair, 

And  an  olive  brow, 
Give  her  this  gold  bracelet ;  — 

Come  and  let  me  know. 

If  the  bride  have  bright  hair, 

And  a  brow  of  snow, 
In  the  great  canal  there 

Quick  the  portrait  throw  : 

And  you  '11  merely  give  her 

This  poor  faded  flower. 
Thanks  !  now  leave  your  stylet 

With  me  for  an  hour. 

You  're  my  friend :  whatever 

I  ask  you  now  to  do, 
If  the  case  were  altered, 

I  would  do  for  you. 

And  you  '11  promise  me,  my  mother 
Shall  never  miss  her  son, 

If  anything  should  happen 
Before  the  night  is  done. 


VENICE. 

THE  sylphs  and  ondines, 
And  the  sea-kings  and  queens, 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  on  the  waves  built  a 

city, 

As  lovely  as  seems 
To  some  bard,  in  his  dreams, 
The  soul  of  his  latest  love-ditty. 
Long  ago,  long  ago,  —  ah  !  that  was  long 

ago 
Thick  as  gems  on  the  chalices 

Kings  keep  for  treasure, 
Were  the  temples  and  palaces 

In  this  city  of  pleasure  : 

And  the  night  broke  out  shining 

With  lamps  and  with  festival, 

O'er  the  squares,  o'er  the  streets ; 
And  the  soft  sea  went,  pining 
With  love,  through  the  musical, 
Musical  bridges,  and  marble  re- 
treats 
Of  this  city  of  wonder,  where  dwelt  the 

ondines, 

Long  ago,  and  the  sylphs,  and  the  sea- 
kings  and  queens, 
—  Ah  !  that  was  long  ago  ! 
But  the  sylphs  and  ondines, 
And  the  sea-kings  and  queens 
Are  fled  under  the  waves  : 


188 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  I  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide 

Through  a  city  of  graves. 
Here  will  I  bury  my  heart, 

Wrapt  in  the  dream  it  dreamed  ; 
One  grave  more  to  the  many  ! 
One  grave  as  silent  as  any  ; 
Sculptured  about  with  art,  — 

For  a  palace  this  tombonce  seemed. 
Light  lips  have  laughed  there, 
Bright  eyes  have  beamed. 
Revel  and  dance  ; 
Lady  and  lover  ! 
Pleasure  hath  quaffed  there  : 
Beauty  hath  gleamed, 
Love  wooed  Romance. 

Now  all  is  over  ! 
And  I  glide,  and  I  glide 
Up  the  glimmering  tide, 
'Mid  forms  silently  passing,  as  silent  as 

any, 

Here,  'mid  the  waves, 
In  this  city  of  graves 
To  bury  my  heart  —  one  grave  more  to 
the  many ! 


ON  THE  SEA. 

COME  !  breathe  thou  soft,  or  blow  thou 

bold, 

Thy  coming  be  it  kind  or  cold, 
Thou  soul  of  the  heedless  ocean  wind  ;  — 
Little  I  rede  and  little  I  reck, 
Though  the  mast  be  snapt  on  the  mizzen- 

deck, 

So  thoxi  blow  her  last  kiss  from  my  neck, 
And  her  memory  from  my  mind  ! 

Comrades  around  the  mast, 
The  welkin  is  o'ercast : 
One  watch  is  wellnigh  past  — 
Out  of  sight  of  shore  at  last ! 

Fade  fast,  thou  falling  shore, 
With  that  fair  false  face  of  yore, 
And  the  love,  and  the  life,  now  o'er  ! 
What  she  sought,  that  let  her  have  — 
The  praise  of  traitor  and  knave, 
The  simper  of  coward  and  slave, 
And  the  worm  that  clings  and  stings  — 
The  knowledge  of  nobler  things. 
But  here  shall  the  mighty  sea 
Make  moan  with  my  heart  in  me, 
And  her  name  be  torn 
By  the  winds  in  scorn, 


In  whose  march  we  are  moving  fp  . . 
I  am  free,  1  am  free,  I  am  free  ! 
Hark  !  how  the  wild  waves  roar  ! 
Hark  !  how  the  wild  winds  rave  ! 
Courage,  true  hearts  and  brave, 
Whom  Fate  can  afflict  no  more  ! 

Comrades,  the  night  is  long. 

I  will  sing  you  an  ancient  song 

Of  a  tale  that  was  told 

In  the  days  of  old, 

Of  a  Baron  blithe  and  strong,  — 

High  heart  and  bosom  bold, 

To  strive  for  the  right  with  wrong  ! 

"  Who  left  his  castled  home, 

When  the  Cross  was  raised  in  Home, 

And  swore  on  his  sword 

To  fight  for  the  Lord, 

And  the  banners  of  Christendom. 

To  die  or  to  overcome  ! 

"  In  hauberk  of  mail,  and  helmet  of  steel, 
And  armor  of  proof  from  head  to  heel, 
0,  what  is  the  wound  which  he  shall 

feel? 
And  where  the  foe  that  shall  make  him 

reel? 
True  knight  on  whose  crest  the  cross  doth 

shine  ! 
They  buckled  his  harness,  brought  him 

his  steed  — 

A  stallion  black  of  the  land's  best  breed — 
Belted  his  spurs,  and  bade  him  God-speed 
'Mid  the  Paynim  in  Palestine. 
But  the  wife  that  he  loved,  when  she 

poured  him  up 

A  last  deep  health  in  her  golden  cup, 
Put  poison  into  the  wine. 

"  So  he  rode  till  the  land  he  loved  grew 

dim, 

And  that  poison  began  to  work  in  him,  — 
A  true    knight  chanting   his  Christian 

hymn, 

With  the  cross  on  his  gallant  crest. 
Eastward,  aye,  from  the  waning  west, 
Toward  the  land  where  the  bones  of  the 

Saviour  rest, 
And  the  Battle  of  God  is  to  win  : 
With  his  young  wife's  picture  upon  his 

breast, 
And  her  poisoned  wine  within. 

"  Alas  !  poor  knight,  poor  knight ! 
He  carries  the  foe  lie  cannot  fight 
In  his  own  tnie  breast  shut  up. 


IN   FRANCE. 


189 


He  shall  die  or  ever  he  fight  for  the  Lord, 

And  his  heart  be  broken  before  his  sword. 

He  hath  pledged  his  life 

To  a  faithless  wife, 

In  the  wine  of  a  poisoned  cup  !  " 

Comrade,  thy  hand  in  mine  ! 
Pledge  me  in  our  last  wine, 
While  all  is  dark  on  the  brine. 
My  friend,  I  reck  not  now 
If  the  wild  night-wind  should  blow 
Our  bark  beyond  the  poles  :  — 
To  drift  through  fire  or  snow, 
Out  of  reach  of  all  we  know  — 
Cold  heart,  and  narrow  brow, 
Smooth  faces,  sordid  souls  ! 
Lost,  like  some  pale  crew 
.  From  Ophir,  in  golden  galleys, 
On  a  witch's  island  !  who 
Wander  the  tamarisk  alleys, 
Where  the  heaven  is  blue, 
And  the  ocean  too, 
That  murmurs  among  the  valleys. 


"  Perisht  with  all  on  board  !  " 

So  runs  the  vagrant  fame  — 

Thy  wife  weds  another  lord, 

My  children  forget  my  name, 

While  we  count  new  stars  by  night. 

Each  wanders  out  of  sight 

Till  the  beard  on  his  chin  grows  white 

And  scant  grow  the  curls  on  his  head. 

One  paces  the  placid  hours 

In  dim  enchanted  bowers, 

By  a  soft-eyed  Panther  led 

To  a  magical  milk-white  bed 

Of  deep,  pale  poison-flowers. 

With  ruined  gods  one  dwells,. 

In  caverns  among  the  fells, 

Where,  with  desolate  arms  outspread, 

A  single  tree  stands  dead, 

Smitten  by  savage  spells, 

And  striking  a  silent  dread 

From  its  black  and  blighted  head 

Through  the  horrible,   hopeless,  sultry 

dells 
Of  Elephanta,  the  Red. 


BOOK  II.- 

"  PRENSUS  IN  1EGJEO." 

'T  is  toil  must  help  us  to  forget. 

In  strife,  they  say,  grief  finds  repose. 
Well,  there 's  the  game  !     I  throw  the 

stakes  :  — 

A  life  of  war,  a  world  of  foes, 
A  heart  that  triumphs  while  it  breaks. 
Some  day  I  too,  perchance,  may  lose 
This   shade  which   memory   o'er   me 

throws, 
And    laugh    as   others    laugh,    (who 

knows  ?) 
But  ah,  't  will  not  be  yet ! 

How  many  years  since  she  and  I 

Walked  that   old    terrace,    hand-in- 
hand  ! 
Just  one  star  in  the  rosy  sky, 

And  silence  on  the  summer  land. 
And  she  ?  .  .  . 

I  think  I  hear  her  sing 

That  song,  —  the  last  of  all  our  songs. 
How  all  comes  back  !  —  thing  after  thing, 

The  old  life  o'er  me  throngs  ! 


FEA^OE. 


But  I  must  to  the  palace  go  ; 

The  ambassador's  to-morrow  : 
Here  's  little  time  for  thought,  I  know, 

And  little  more  for  sorrow. 
Already  in  the  porte-cochere 

The  carriage  sounds  .  .  .  my  hat  and 

gloves  ! 
I  hear  my  friend's  foot  on  the  stair, — 

How  joyously  it  moves  ! 
He  must  have  done  some  wicked  thing 

To  make  him  tread  so  light : 
Or  is  it  only  that  the  king 

Admired  his  wife  last  night  ? 
We  talk  of  nations  by  the  way, 

And  praise  the  Nuncio's  manners, 
And  end  with  something  fine  to  say 

About  the  "allied  banners." 
'T  is  well  to  mix  with  all  conditions 

Of  men  in  every  station  : 
I  sup  to-morrow  with  musicians, 

Upon  the  invitation 
Of  my  clever  friend,  the  journalist, 

Who  writes  the  reading  plays 
Which  no  one  reads  ;  a  socialist 

Most  social  in  his  ways. 


190 


THE  WANDERER. 


But  I  am  sick  of  nil  the  din 
That's  mailc  in  praising  Verdi, 

Who  only  know  a  violin 
Is  not  a  hurdy-gurdy. 

Here  oft,  while  on  a  nerveless  hand 

An  aching  brow  reclining, 
Through  this  tall  window  where  I  stand, 

I  see  the  great  town  shining. 
Hard  by,  the  restless  Boulevart  roars, 

Heard  all  the  night  through,  even  in 

dreaming  : 
"While  from  its  hundred  open  doors 

The  mauy-headed  Life  is  streaming. 
Upon  the  world's  wide  thoroughfares 

My  lot  is  cast.     So  be  it ! 
Each  on  his  back  his  burthen  bears, 

•And  feels,  though  he  may  not  see  it. 
My  life  is  not  more  hard  than  theirs 

Who  toil  on  either  side  : 
They  cry  for  quiet  in  their  prayers, 

And  it  is  still  denied. 

But  sometimes,  when  I  stand  alone, 

Life  pauses,  —  now  and  then  : 
And  in  the  distance  dies  the  moan 

Of  miserable  men. 
As  in  a  dream  (how  strange  !)  I  seem 

To  be  lapsing,  slowly,  slowly, 
From  noise  and  strife,  to  a  stiller  life, 

Where  all  is  husht  and  holy. 

Ah,  love  !  our  way 's  in  a  stranger  land. 

We  may  not  rest  together. 
For  an  Angel  takes  me  by  the  hand, 

And  leads  me  ...  whither  ?  whither  ? 


A  L'ENTRESOL. 

ONE  circle  of  all  its  golden  hours 

The  flitting  hand  of  the  Time-piece 
there, 

In  its  close  white  bower  of  china  flowers, 
Hath  rounded  unaware  : 

While  the  firelight,  flung  from  the  flicker- 
ing wall 

On  the  large  and  limpid  mirror  behind, 
Hath  reddened  and  darkened  down  o'er 

all, 
As  the  fire  itself  declined. 

Something  of  pleasure  and  something  of 

pain 

There   lived  in   that    sinking  light. 
What  is  it  ? 


Faces  I  never  shall  look  at  again, 
In  places  you  never  will  visit, 

Revealed  themselves  in  each  faltering 
ember, 

While,  under  a  palely  wavering  flame, 
Half  of  the  years  life  aches  to  remember 

Reappeared,  and  died  as  they  came. 

To  its  dark  Forever  an  hour  hath  gone 
Since  either  you  or  I  have  spoken  : 

Each   of   us  might   have   been   sitting 

alone 
In  a  silence  so  unbroken. 

I  never  shall  know  what  made  me  look 

up 
(In  this  cushioned  chair  so  soft  and  • 

deep, 

By  the  table  where,  over  the  empty  cup, 
I  was  leaning,  half  asleep) 

To  catch  a  gleam  on  the  picture  up 

there 
Of  the  saint  in  the  wilderness  under 

the  oak  ; 
And  a  light  on  the  brow  of  the  bronze 

Voltaire, 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  cynical  joke. 

To  mark,  in  each  violet  velvet  fold 
Of  the  curtains  that  fall  'twixt  room 
and  room, 

The  dip  and  dance  of  the  manifold 
Shadows  of  rosy  gloom. 

O'er  the  Rembrandt  there  —  the  Caracci 

here  — 

Flutter  warmly  the  ruddy  and  waver- 
ing hues ; 
And  St.  Anthony  over  his  book  has  a 

leer 
At  the  little  French  beauty  by  Greuze. 

There,  —  the   Leda,    weighed   over  her 

white  swan's  back, 
By  the  weight  of  her  passionate  kiss, 

ere  it  falls  ; 

O'er  the  ebony  cabinet,  glittering  black 
Through  its  ivory  cups  and  balls  : 

Your  scissors  and  thimble,    and  work 

laid  away, 

With  its  silks,   in  the  scented  rose- 
wood box  ; 

The  journals,  that  tell  truth  every  day, 
And  that  novel  of  Paul  de  Kock's  : 


IN  FRANCE. 


191 


The  flowers  in  the  vast,  with  their  bells 

shut  close 
In  a  dream  of  the  far  green  fields 

where  they  grew ; 
The   cards  of  the   visiting  people  and 

shows 
In  that  bowl  with  the  sea-green  hue. 

Your  shawl,  with  a  queenly  droop  of  its 

own, 
Hanging  over  the  arm  of  the  crimson 

chair : 

And,  last,  —  yourself,  as  silent  as  stone, 
In  a  glow  of  the  firelight  there  ! 

I  thought  you  were  reading  all  this  time. 

And  was  it  some  wonderful  page  of 

your  book 
Telling  of  love,  with  its  glory  and  crime, 

That  has  left  you  that  sorrowful  look  ? 

For  a  tear  from  those  dark,  deep,  humid 

orbs 
'Neath  their  lashes,  so  long,  and  soft, 

and  sleek, 

All  the  light  in  your  lustrous  eyes  ab- 
sorbs, 
As  it  trembles  over  your  cheek. 

Were  you  thinking  how  we,  sitting  side 

by  side, 
Might  be  dreaming  miles  and  miles 

apart  ? 

Or  if  lips  could  meet  over  a  gulf  so  wide 
As  separates  heart  from  heart  ? 

Ah,  well !  when  time  is  flown,  how  it 

fled 

It  is  better  neither  to  ask  nor  tell. 
Leave  the  dead  moments  to  bury  their 

dead. 
Let  us  kiss  and  break  the  spell ! 

Come,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  window  here  ; 

Draw  by  the  thick  curtain,  and  see 

how,  to-night, 
In  the  clear  and  frosty  atmosphere, 

The  lamps  are  burning  bright. 

All  night,  and  forever,  in  yon  great  town, 
The  heaving  Boulevart  flares  and  roars ; 

And  the  streaming  Life  flows  up  and 

down 
From  its  hundred  open  doors. 

It  is  scarcely  so  cold,  but  I  and  you, 
With  never  a  friend  to  find  us  out, 


May  stare  at  the  shops  for  a  moment 

or  two, 
And  wander  awhile  about. 

For  when  in  the  crowd  we  have  taken 

our  place, 
( — Just  two  more  lives  to  the  mighty 

street  there  !) 
Knowing  no  single  form  or  face 

Of  the    men    and  women  we    meet 

there,  — 

Knowing,  and  known  of,  none  in  the 

whole 
Of  that  crowd  all  round,  but  our  two 

selves  only, 

We  shall  grow  nearer,  soul  to  soul, 
Until  we  feel  less  lonely. 

Here  are  your  bonnet  and  gloves,  dear. 

There,  — 
How  stately  you   look  in  that  long 

rich  shawl ! 

Put  back  your  beautiful  golden  hair, 
That  never  a  curl  may  fall. 

Stand  in  the  firelight ...  so,  ...  as  you 

were,  — 
0  my  heart,    how  fearfully  like  her 

she  seemed  ! 

Hide  me  up  from  my  own  despair, 
And  the  ghost  of  a  dream  1  dreamed  ! 


TERRA  INCOGNITA. 

How  sweet  it  is  to  sit  beside  her, 
When  the  hour  brings  nought  that  '• 

better ! 

All  day  in  my  thoughts  to  hide  her, 
And,  with  fancies  free  from  fetter, 
Half  remember,  half  forget  her. 
Just  to  find  her  out  by  times 
In  my  mind,  among  sweet  fancies 

Laid  away : 

In  the  fall  of  mournful  rhymes  ; 
In  a  dream  of  distant  climes  ; 
In  the  sights  a  lonely  man  sees 
At  the  dropping  of  the  day  ; 

Grave  or  gay. 

As  a  maiden  sometimes  locks 
With  old  letters,  whose  contents 

Tears  have  faded, 
In  an  old  worm-eaten  box, 
Some  sweet  packet  of  faint  scents, 
Silken-braided ; 
And  forgets  it : 


192 


THE   WANDERER. 


Careless,  so  I  hide 

In  my  life  her  love,  — 
Fancies  on  each  side, 

Memories  heaix-d  above  :  — 
There  it  lies,  unspi<-il  : 

Nothing  frets  it. 
On  a  sudden,  when 

Deed,  or  word,  or  glance, 
Brings  me  back  again 
To  the  old  romance, 
With  what  rapture  then,  — 
When,  in  its  completeness, 
Once  my  heart  hath  found  it, 

By  each  sense  detected, 
Steals  on  me  the  sweetness 
Of  the  air  around  it, 

Where  it  lies  neglected  ! 
Shall  I  break  the  charm  of  this 

In  a  single  minute  ? 
For  some  chance  with  fuller  bliss 

Proffered  in  it  ? 
Secrets  unsealed  by  a  kiss, 

Could  I  win  it ! 
'T  is  so  sweet  to  linger  near  her, 

Idly  so  ! 
Never  reckoning,  while  I  hear  her 

Whispering  low, 
If  each  whisper  will  make  clearer 

Bliss  or  woe  ; 
Never  roused  to  hope  or  fear  her 

Yes  or  Xo  ! 
What  if,  seeking  something  more 

Than  before, 
All  that 's  given  I  displace  — 

(.'aim  and  grace  — 
Nothing  ever  can  restore, 

As  of  yore, 

That  old  quiet  face  ! 

Quiet  skies  in  quiet  lakes, 

No  wind  wakes, 
All  their  beauty  double  : 
But  a  single  pebble  breaks 
Lake  and  sky  to  trouble  ; 
Then  dissolves  the  foam  it  makes 

In  a  bubble. 

With  the  pebble  in  my  hand, 
Here,  upon  the  brink,  I  stand  ; 
Meanwhile,  standing  on  the  brink, 

Let  me  think  ! 

Not  for  her  sake,  but  for  mine, 
Let  those  eyes  unquestioned  shine, 

Half  divine  : 

Let  no  hand  disturb  the  rare 
Smoothness  of  that  lustrous  hair 

Anywhere  : 

Let  that  white  breast  never  break 
Its  calm  motion  —  sleep  or  wake  — 


For  my  sake. 

Not  for  her  sake,  Ini  t  for  mine, 
All  I  might  have,  I  resign. 

Should  I  glow 

To  the  hue  —  the  fragrance  fine  — 
The  mere  first  sight  of  tin-  wine, 
If  1  drained  the  goblet  low  ? 

Who  can  know  ? 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow, 
Let  her  go  !     Shall  I  repine 
That  no  idle  breath  of  mine 
Melts  it  ?     No  !     T  is  better  so. 
All  the  same,  as  she  came, 
With  her  beauty  like  the  snow, 
Cold,  unspotted,  let  her  go  ! 


A  REMEMBRANCE. 

'T  WAS  eve  and  May  when  last,  through 

tears, 
Thine  eyes  sought  mine,  thy  hand  my 

hand. 

The  night  came  down  her  silent  spheres, 
And  up  the  silent  laud. 

In  silence,  too,  rny  thoughts  were  furled, 
Like  ring-doves  in  the  dreaming  grove. 
Who  would  not  lightly  lose  the  world 
To  keep  such  love  ? 

But  many  Mays,  with  all  their  flowers, 
Are  faded  since  that  blissful  time  — 
The  last  of  all  my  happy  hours 

I'  the  golden  clime  ! 

By  hands  not  thine  these  wreaths  were 

curled 

That  hide  the  care  my  brows  above : 
And  I  have  almost  gained  the  world, 
But  lost  that  love. 

As  though  for  some  serene  dead  brow, 

These  wreaths  for  me  I  let  them  twine. 
I  hear  the  voice  of  praise,  and  know 
It  is  not  thine. 

How  many  long  and  lonely  days 

I  strove  with  life  thy  love  to  gain  ! 
I  know  my  work  was  worth  thy  prai.M- ; 
But  all  was  vain. 

Vain  Passion's  fire,  vain  Music's  art ! 
For  who  from  thorns  grape-bunches 

gathers  ? 
What  depth  is  in  the  shallow  heart  ? 

What  weight  in  feathers  ? 


IN   FRANCE. 


193 


As  drops  the  blossom,  ere  the  growth 

Of  fruit,  on  some  autumnal  tree, 
I  drop  from  my  changed  life,  its  youth 
And  joy  in  thee  : 

And  look  beyond,  and  o'er  thee,  —  right 

To  some  sublimer  end  than  lies 
Within  the  compass  of  the  sight 
Of  thy  cold  eyes. 

With  thine  my  soul  hath  ceased  its  strife. 
Thy  part  is  filled  ;  thy  work  is  done  ; 
Thy  falsehood  buried  in  my  life, 

And  known  to  none. 

Yet  still  will  golden  memories  frame 

Thy  broken  image  in  my  heart, 
And  love  for  what  thou  wast  shut  blame 
From  what  thou  art. 

In  Life's  long  galleries,  haunting-eyed, 

Thy  pictured  face  no  change  shall  show; 
Like  some  dead  Queen's  who  lived  and  died 
An  age  ago  ! 


MADAME   LA   MARQUISE. 

THE  folds  of  her  wine- dark  violet  dress 

Glow  over  the  sofa,  fall  on  fall, 
As  she  sits  in  the  air  of  her  loveliness 
,    With  a  smile  for  each  and  for  all. 

Half  of  her  exquisite  face  in  the  shade 
Which  o'er  it  the  screen  in  her  soft 

hand  flings  : 
Through  the  gloom  glows  her  hair  in  its 

odorous  braid  : 
In  the  firelight  are  sparkling  her  rings. 

As  she  leans,  —  the  slow  smile  half  shut 

up  in  her  eyes 
Beams  the  sleepy,  long,  silk-soft  lashes 

beneath  ; 
Through  her  crimson  lips,  stirred  by  her 

faint  replies, 

Breaks  one  gleam  of  her  pearl-white 
teeth. 

As  she  leans,  —  where  your  eye,  by  her 

beauty  subdued, 
Droops  —  from  under  warm  fringes  of 

broidery  white 
The  slightest  of  feet  —  silken-slippered, 

protrude, 

For  one  moment,   then   slip   out   of 
sight. 

13 


As  I  bend  o'er  her  bosom,  to  tell  her  the 

news, 

The  faint   scent  of  her  hair,  the  ap- 
proach of  her  cheek, 
The  vague  warmth  of  her  breath,  all  my 

senses  suffuse 
With  HERSELF  :  and  I  tremble  to  speak. 

So  she  sits  in  the  curtained,  luxurious 

light 
Of  that  room,  with  its  porcelain,  and 

pictures,  and  flowers, 
When  the  dark  day 's  half  done,  and  the 

snow  flutters  white, 
Past  the  windows  in  feathery  showers. 

All  without  is  so  cold,  —  'neath  the  low 

leaden  sky  ! 
Down  the  bald,  empty  street,  like  a 

ghost,  the  gendarme 
Stalks  surly  :   a  distant  carriage  hums 

by:- 
All  within  is  so  bright  and  so  warm  ! 

Here  we  talk  of  the  schemes  and  the 

scandals  of  court, 

How  the  courtesan  pushes  :  the  char- 
latan thrives : 
We  put  horns  on  the  heads  of  our  friends, 

just  for  sport : 

Put  intrigues  in  the  heads  of  their 
wives. 

Her  warm  hand,  at  parting,  so  strangely 

thrilled  mine, 
That  at  dinner  I  scarcely  remark  what 

they  say,  — 
Drop  the  ice  in  my  soup,  spill  the  salt 

in  my  wine, 
Then  go  yawn  at  my  favorite  play. 

But  she  drives  after  noon  :  —  then 's  the 

time  to  behold  her, 
With  her  fair  face  half  hid,  like  a  ripe 

peeping  rose, 
'Neath  that  veil,  —  o'er  the  velvets  and 

furs  which  enfold  her, 
Leaning  back  with  a  queenly  repose,  — 

As  she  glides  up  the  sunlight ! .  .  .  You  'd 

say  she  was  made 
To  loll  back  in  a  carriage,  all  day,  with 

a  smile, 
And  at  dusk,  on  a  sofa,  to  lean  in  the 

shade 

Of  soft  lamps,  and  be  wooed  for  » 
while. 


194 


THK   WANDERER. 


Could  we  find  out  her  heart  through 

that  velvet  and  lace  ! 
Can  it  beat  without  ruffling  her  sump- 
tuous dress  ? 
She   will   show   us    her    shoulder,    her 

bosom,  her  face  ; 

But  what  the  heart's  like,  we  must 
guess. 

With  live  women  and  men  to  be  found 

in  the  world  — 
(-1— Live  with  sorrow  and  sin, — live 

with  pain  and  with  passion,  — ) 
Who  could  live  with  a  doll,  though  its 

locks  should  be  curled, 
And  its  petticoats   trimmed    in  the 
fashion  ? 

'T  is  so  fair  !  .  .  .  would  my  bite,  if  I 

bit  it,  draw  blood  ? 

Will  it  cry  if  I  hurt  it  ?  or  scold  if  I  kiss  ? 
Is  it  made,  with  its  beauty,  of  wax  or 

of  wood  ? 
...  Is  it  worth  while  to  guess  at  all  this  ? 


THE  NOVEL. 

"  HERE,  I  have  a  book  at  last  — 
Sure,"  I  thought,  "to  make  you  weep !" 

But  a  careless  glance  you  cast 
O'er  its  pages,  half  asleep. 

'T  is  a  novel,  —  a  romance, 

(What  you  will)  of  youth,  of  home, 
And  of  brilliant  days  in  France, 

And  long  moonlit  nights  in  Rome. 

'T  is  a  tale  of  tears  and  sins, 
Of  love's  glory  and  its  gloom  ; 

In  a  ball-room  it  begins, 
And  it  ends  beside  a  tomb  ; 

There 's  a  little  heroine  too, 

Whom  each  chapter  leaves  more  pale  ; 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  blue 

Like  the  violet  of  the  vale  ; 

And  her  hand  is  frail  and  fair  ; 

Could  you  but  have  seen  it  lie 
O'er  the  convent  death-bed,  where 

Wept  the  nuns  to  watch  her  die, 

You,  I  think,  had  wept  as  well ; 

For  the  patience  in  her  face 
(Where  the  dying  sunbeam  fell) 

Had  such  strange  heart-breaking  grace. 


There 's  a  lover,  eager,  bold, 
Knocking  at  the  convent  gate  : 

But  that  little  hand  grows  cold, 
And  the  lover  knocks  too  late. 

There 's  a  high-born  lady  stands 

At  a  golden  mirror,  pale  ; 
Something  makes  her  jewelled  hands 

Tremble,  as  she  hears  the  tale 

Which  her  maid  (while  weaving  roses 
For  the  ball,  through  her  dark  hair) 

Mixed  with  other  news,  discloses. 
0,  to-night  she  will  look  fair  ! 

There  's  an  old  man,  feeble-handed, 
Counting  gold  ..."  My  son  shall  wed 

With  the  Princess,  as  I  planned  it, 
Now  that  little  girl  is  dead." 

There 's  a  young  man,  sullen,  husht, 
By  remorse  and  grief  unmanned, 

With  a  withered  primrose  crusht 
In  his  hot  and  feverish  hand. 

There's  a  broken-hearted  woman, 
Haggard,  desolate,  and  wild, 

Says  .  .  .  "The  world  hath  grown  in- 
human ! 
Bury  me  beside  my  child." 

And  the  little  god  of  this  world 
Hears  them,  laughing  in  his  sleeve. 

He  is  master  still  in  his  world, 
There 's  another,  we  believe. 

Of  this  history  every  part 

You  have  seen,  yet  did  not  heed  it ; 
For  't  is  written  in  my  heart, 

And  you  have  not  learned  to  read  it. 


AUX  ITALIENS. 

AT  Paris  it  was,  at  the  Opera  there  ;  — 
And  she  looked  like  a  queen  in  a  book, 

that  night, 
With  the  wreath  of  pearl  in  her  raven 

hair, 

And  the  brooch   on    her  breast,   so 
bright. 

Of  all  the  operas  that  Verdi  wrote, 
The  best,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Trovatore  : 

And  Mario  can  soothe  with  a  tenor  note 
The  souls  in  Purgatory. 


195 


The  moon  on  the  tower  slept  soft  as  snow  : 
And   who   was    not    thrilled    in   the 

strangest  way, 
As  we  heard  him  sing,   while  the  gas 

burned  low, 
" Non  ti sc&rdar  di  me"  1 

The  Emperor  there,  in  his  box  of  state, 
Looked  grave,  as  if  he  had  just  then 
seen 

The  red  flag  wave  from  the  city -gate, 
Where  his  eagles  in  bronze  had  been. 

The  Empress,  too,  had  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

You'd  have  said  that  her  fancy  had 

gone  back  again, 
For  one  moment,  under  the  old  blue  sky, 

To  the  old  glad  life  in  Spain. 

Well  !  there  in  our  front-row  box  we  sat, 
Together,  my  bride-betrothed  and  I  ; 

My  gaze  was  fixed  on  my  opera-hat, 
And  hers  on  the  stage  hard  by. 

And  both  were  silent,  and  both  were  sad. 

Like  a  queen,  she  leaned  on  her  full 

white  arm, 
With  that  regal,  indolent  air  she  had  ; 

So  confident  of  her  charm  ! 

I  have  not  a  doubt  she  was  thinking  then 
Of  her  former  lord,  good  soul  that  he 

was  ! 
Who  died  the  richest  and  roundest  of 

men, 
The  Marquis  of  Carabas. 

I  hope  that,  to  get  to  the  kingdom  of 

heaven, 
Through  a  needle's  eye  he  had  not  to 

pass. 

I  wish  him  well,  for  the  jointure  given 
To  my  lady  of  Carabas. 

Meanwhile,  I  was  thinking  of  my  first 

love, 
As  I  had  not  been  thinking  of  aught 

for  years, 

Till  over  my  eyes  there  began  to  move 
Something  that  felt  like  tears. 

I  thought  of  the  dress  that  she  wore  last 

time, 

When  we  stood,  'neath  the  cypress- 
trees,  together, 

In  that  lost  land,  in  that  soft  clime, 
In  the  crimson  evening  weather  : 


Of  that  muslin  dress  (for  the  eve  was  hot), 
And  her  warm  white  neck  in  its  golden 

chain 
And  her  full,  soft  hair,  just  tied  in  a 

knot, 
And  falling  loose  again  : 

And  the  jasmin-flower  in  her  fair  young 

breast  :  \ 

(0  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  that  jas- 
min-flower !) 
And  the  one  bird  singing  alone  to  his 

nest : 
And  the  one  star  over  the  tower. 

I  thought  of  our  little  quarrels  and  strife  ; 
And  the  letter  that  brought  me  back 

my  ring. 
And  it  all  seemed  then,  in  the  waste  of 

life, 
Such  a  very  little  thing  ! 

For  I  thought  of  her  grave  below  the  hill, 
Which  the  sentinel  cypress-tree  stands 

over. 

And  I  thought .  .  .  "were  she  only  liv- 
ing still, 

How  I   could  forgive  her,   and  love 
her  !  " 

And  I  swear,  as  I  thought  of  her  thus, 

in  that  hour, 
And  of  how,  after  all,  old  things  were 

best, 

That  I  smelt  the  smell  of  that  jasmin- 
flower, 
Which  she  used  to  wear  in  her  breast. 

It  smelt  so  faint,  and  it  smelt  sc  sweet, 
It  made  me  creep,  and  it  made  me  cold  ! 

Like    the   scent    that   steals   from    the 

crumbling  sheet 
Where  a  mummy  is  half  unrolled. 

And  I  turned,  and  looked.     She  was  sit- 
ting there 

In  a  dim  box,  over  the  stage  ;  and  drest 
In  that  muslin  dress,  with  that  full  soft 

hair, 
And  that  jasmin  in  her  breast ! 

I  was  here  :  and  she  was  there  : 
And  the  glittering  horseshoe  curved 

between  :  — 

From  my  bride-betrothed,  with  her  ra- 
ven hair, 
And  her  sumptuous,  scornful  mien. 


196 


THE  WANDERER. 


To  my  early  love,  with  her  eyes  downcast, 
And  over  her  primrose  face  the  shade, 

(In  short  from  tin-  Future  back  to  the  Past) 
There  was  but  a  step  to  be  made. 

To  my  early  love  from  my  future  bride 
One  moment  I  looked.     Then  1  stole 

to  the  door, 
I  traversed  the  passage  ;  and  down  at 

her  side, 
I  was  sitting,  a  moment  more. 

My  thinking  of  her,  or  the  music's  strain, 
Or  something  which  never  will  be  ex- 

prest, 
Had  brought  her  back  from  the  grave 

again, 
With  the  jasmin  in  her  breast 

She  is  not  dead,  and  she  is  not  wed  ! 
But  she  loves  me  now,  and  she  loved 

me  then  ! 
And  the  very  first  word  that  her  sweet 

lips  said, 
My  heart  grew  youthful  again. 

The  Marchioness  there,  of  Carabas, 
She  is  wealthy,  and  young,  and  hand- 
some still, 
And  but  for  her  .  .  .  well,  we  '11  let  that 

pass, 
She  may  marry  whomever  she  will. 

But  I  will  marry  my  own  first  love, 
With  her  primrose  face  :  for  old  things 

are  best, 
And  the  flower  in  her  bosom,  I  prize  it 

above 
The  brooch  in  my  lady's  breast. 

The  world  is  filled  with  folly  and  sin, 
And  Love  must  cling  where  it  can,  I  say : 

For  Beauty  is  easy  enough  to  win  ; 
But  one  is  n't  loved  every  day. 

And  I  think,  in  the  lives  of  most  women 

and  men, 
There  'a  a  moment  when  all  would  go 

smooth  and  even, 

If  only  the  dead  could  find  out  when 
To  come  back,  and  be  forgiven. 

But  0  the  smell  of  that  jasmin-flower ! 

And  0  that  music  !  and  0  the  way 
That  voice  rang  out  from  the  donjon  tower 

Non  ti  scordar  di  >ne, 
2fon  ti  scordar  dim*  I 


PROGRESS. 

WHKN  Liberty  lives  loud  on  every  lip, 

But  Freedom  moans, 
Trampled  l>y  Nations  whose  faint  foot- 
falls slip 

Round  bloody  thrones ; 
When,  here  and  there,  in  dungeon  and  in 

thrall, 

Or  exile  pale, 
Like  torches  dying  at  a  funeral, 

Brave  natures  fail ; 
When    Truth,    the    armed    archangel, 

stretches  wide 
God's  tromp  in  vain, 
And  the  world,  drowsing,  turns  upon  its 

side 

To  drowse  again  ; 
0  Man,  whose  course  hath  called  itself 

sublime 
Since  it  began, 

What  art  thou  in  such  dying  age  of  time, 
As  man  to  man  ? 

When  Love's  last  wrong  hath  been  for- 
gotten coldly, 
As  First  Love's  face  : 
And,  like  a  rat  that  comes  to  wanton 

boldly 

In  some  lone  place, 
Once  festal,  —  in  the  realm  of  light  and 

laughter 

Grim  Doubt  appears ; 
Whilst  weird  suggestions  from  Death's 

vague  Hereafter, 
O'er  ruined  years, 
Creep,  dark  and  darker,  with  new  dread 

to  mutter 

Through  Life's  long  shade, 
Yet  make  no  more  in  the  chill  breast  the 

flutter 

Which  once  they  made  : 
Whether  it  be,  —  that  all  doth  at  the 

grave 

Round  to  its  term, 
That  nothing  lives  in  that  last  darkness, 

save 

The  little  worm, 
Or  whether  the  tired  spirit  prolong  its 

course 

Through  realms  unseen,  — 
Secure,  that  unknown  world  cannot  be 

worse 

Than  this  hath  been  ; 
Then    when    through    Thought's    gold 

chain,  so  frail  and  slender, 
No  link  will  mc^et ; 


IN   FRANCE. 


197 


When  all  the  broken  harps  of  Language 

render 

No  sound  that 's  sweet ; 
When,  like  torn  books,  sad  days  weigh 

down  each  other 
I'  the  dusty  shelf ; 
0  Man,  what  art  thou,  0  my  friend,  my 

brother, 
Even  to  thyself? 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

MIDNIGHT  past !     Not  a  sound  of  aught 
Through  the   silent    house,   but  the 
wind  at  his  prayers. 

I  sat  by  the  dying  fire,  and  thought 
Of  the  dear  dead  woman  up  stairs. 

A  night  of  tears  !  for  the  gusty  rain 
Had  ceased,  but  the  eaves  were  drip- 
ping yet ; 
And  the  moon  looked  forth,  as  though 

in  pain, 
With  her  face  all  white  and  wet : 

Nobody  with  me,  my  watch  to  keep, 
But  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man 
I  love  : 

And  grief  had  sent  him  fast  to  sleep 
In  the  chamber  up  above. 

Nobody  else,  in  the  country  place 
All  round,  that  knew  of  my  loss  beside, 

But  the  good  young  Priest  with  the 

Raphael-face, 
Who  confessed  her  when  she  died. 

That  good  young  Priest  is  of  gentle  nerve, 
And  my  grief  had  moved  him  beyond 
control  ; 

For  his  lip  grew  white,  as  I  could  observe, 
When  he  speeded  her  parting  soul. 

I  sat  by  the  dreary  hearth  alone  : 

I    thought   of  the   pleasant  days    of 
yore: 

I  said  "  the  staff  of  my  life  is  gone  : 
The  woman  I  loved  is  no  more. 

"  On  her  cold,  dead  bosom  my  portrait 

lies, 
Which  next  to  her  heart  she  used  to 

wear  — 

Haunting  it  o'er  with  her  tender  eyes 
When  my  own  face  was  not  there. 


"  It  is  set  all  round  with  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have 
kept. 

For  each  ruby  there,  my  heart  hath  bled  : 
For  each  pearl,  my  eyes  have  wept." 

And  I  said  —  ' '  the  thing  is  precious  to 

me  : 

They  will  bury  her  soon  in  the  church- 
yard clay  ; 

It  lies  on  her  heart,  and  lost  must  be, 
If  I  do  not  take  it  away." 

I  lighted  my  lamp  at  the  dying  flame, 
And  crept  up  the  stairs  that  creaked  for 
fright, 

Till  into  the  chamber  of  death  I  came, 
Where  she  lay  all  in  white. 

The  moon  shone  over  her  winding-sheet. 

There,  stark  she  lay  on  her  carven  bed: 
Seven  burning  tapers  about  her  feet, 

And  seven  about  her  head. 

As  I  stretched  my  hand,  I  held  my 
breath  ; 

I  turned  as  I  drew  the  curtains  apart  r 
I  dared  not  look  on  the  face  of  death  : 

I  knew  where  to  find  her  heart, 

I  thought,  at  first,  as  my  touch  fell  there, 
It  had  wanned  that  heart  to  life,  with 

love  ; 
For  the  thing  I  touched  was  warm,  I 

swear, 
And  I  could  feel  it  move. 

'T  was  the  hand  of  a  man,  that  was  mov- 
ing slow 
O'er  the  heart  of  the  dead,  —  from  the 

other  side ; 
And  at  once  the  sweat  broke  over  my 

brow, 
' '  Who  is  robbing  the  corpse  ? "  I  cried. 

Opposite  me,  by  the  tapers'  light, 
The  friend  of  my  bosom,  the  man  I 
loved, 

Stood  over  the  corpse,  and  all  as  white, 
And  neither  of  us  moved. 

"What  do  you  here,  my  friend  ?"  .  .  . 

The  man 
Looked  first  at  me,  and  then  at  the 

dead. 

"  There  is  a  portrait  here,"  he  began  ; 
"  There  is.     It  is  mine,"  I  said. 


198 


THE   WANDERER. 


Said  the  friend  of  my  bosom,  "  yours,  no 
doubt, 

The  ]>ortntit  was,  till  a  mouth  ago, 
When  tliis  suffering  angel  took  that  out, 

And  placed  mine  there,  I  know." 

4 '  This  woman,  she  loved  me  well,"  said  I. 
"A  month  ago,"  said  my  friend  to 

me; 
4t  And  in  your  throat,"  I  groaned,  "you 

lie!" 
He  answered  ...  "let  us  see." 

"  Enough  !  "  I  returned,  "  let  the  dead 
decide  : 

And  whose  soever  the  portrait  prove, 
His  shall  it  be,  when  the  cause  is  tried, 

Whore  Death  is  arraigned  by  Love." 

We  found  the  portrait  there,  in  its  place  : 
W«>  opened  it,  by  the  tapers'  shine  : 

The  gems  were  all  unchanged  :  the  face 
Was  —  neither  his  nor  mine. 

"  One  nail  drives  out  another,  at  least ! 

The  face  oi'  the  portrait  there,"  I  cried, 
"Is  our  friend's,  the  Raphael-faced 
young  Priest, 

Who  confessed  her  when  she  died." 

The  setting  is  all  of  rubies  red, 
And  pearls  which  a  Peri  might  have 
kept. 

For  each  ruby  there  my  heart  hath  bled  : 
For  each  pearl  my  eyes  have  wept. 


ASTAKTE. 

WHEN  the  latest  strife  is  lost,  and  all  is 

done  with, 
Ere  we  slumber  in  the  spirit  and  the 

brain, 
We  drowse  back,  in  dreams,  to  days  that 

life  begun  with, 

And  their  tender  light  returns  to  us 
again. 

I  have  cast  away  the  tangle  and  the  tor- 
ment 
Of  the  cords  that  bound  my  life  up  in 

a  mesh  : 
And  the  pulse  begins  to  throb  that  long 

lay  dormant 

'Neath   th fir  pressure  ;   and  the  old 
wounds  bleed  afresh. 


I  am  touched  again  with  shades  of  early 

sadness, 
Like  the  summer-cloud's  light  shadow 

in  my  hair  : 

I  am  thrilled  again  with  breaths  of  boy- 
ish gladness, 

Like  the  scent  of  some  last  primrose 
on  the  air. 

And  again  she  comes,  with  all  her  silent 

graces, 
The  lost  woman  of.  my  youth,  yet  tin- 

possest : 

And  her  cold  face  so  unlike  the  other  faces 
Of  the  women  whose  dead  lips  I  since 
have  prest. 

The  motion  and  the   fragrance   of  her 

garments 
Seem  about  me,  all  the  day  long,  in 

the  room  : 
And  her  face,  with  its  bewildering  old 

endearments 

Comes  at  night,  between  the  curtains, 
in  the  gloom. 

When  vain  dreams  are  stirred  with  sigh- 
ing, near  the  morning, 
To  my  own  her  phantom  lips  I  feel 

approach : 
And  her  smile,  at  eve,  breaks  o'er  me 

without  warning 

From   its  speechless,   pale,  perpetual 
reproach. 

When  Life's  dawning  glimmer  yet  had 

all  the  tint  there 
Of  the  orient,  in  the  freshness  of  the 

grass, 
(Ah,  what  feet  since  then  have  trodden 

out  the  print  there  !) 
Did  her  soft,  her  silent  footsteps  fall, 


They  fell  lightly,  as  the  dew  falls,  'mid 

ungathered 
Meadow-flowers  ;  and  lightly  lingered 

with  the  dew. 
But  the  dew  is  gone,  the  grass  is  dried 

and  withered, 

And  the  traces  of  those  steps  have 
faded  too. 

Other  footsteps  fall  about  me,  —  faint, 

uncertain, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  world,  as  it  re* 
cedes: 


IN   FRANCE. 


199 


Other  forms  peer  through  the  half-up- 
lifted curtain 

Of  that  mystery  which  hangs  behind 
the  creeds. 

What  is  gone,  is  gone  forever.    And  new 

fashions 
May  replace  old  forms  which  nothing 

can  restore  : 
But  I  turn  from  sighing  back  departed 

passions 

With  that  pining  at  the  bosom  as  of 
yore. 

I  remember  to  have  murmured,  morn  and 

even, 
"Though  the    Earth    dispart    these 

Earthlies,  face  from  face, 
Yet  the  Heavenlies  shall  surely  join  in 

Heaven, 

For  the  spirit  hath  no  bonds  in  time 
or  space. 

"  Where  it  listeth,  there  it  bloweth  ;  all 

existence 
Is  its  region  ;  and  it  houseth,  where 

it  will. 
I  shall  feel  her  through  immeasurable 

distance, 

And  grow  nearer  and  be  gathered  to 
her  still. 

"  If  I  fail  to  find  her  out  by  her  gold 

tresses, 

Brows,  and  breast,  and  lips,  and  lan- 
guage of  sweet  strains, 
I  shall  know  her  by  the  traces  of  dead 

kisses, 

And  that  portion  of  myself  which  she 
retains." 

But  my  being  is  confused  with  new  ex- 
perience, 
And  changed  to  something  other  than 

it  was  ; 
And  the  Future  with  the  Past  is  set  at 

variance ; 

And   Life   falters  with  the  burthens 
which  it  has. 

Earth's  old  sins  press  fast  behind  me, 

weakly  wailing  : 
Faint  before  me  fleets  the  good  I  have 

not  done : 

And  my  search  for  her  may  still  be  un- 
availing 

'Mid  the  spirits  that  are  passed  beyond 
the  sun. 


AT  HOME  DURING  THE  BALL. 

'T  is  hard  upon  the  dawn,  and  yet 
She  comes  not  from  the  Ball. 

The  night  is  cold,  and  bleak,  and  wet, 
And  the  snow  lies  over  all. 

I  praised  her  with  her  diamonds  on  :  — 
And,  as  she  went,  she  smiled. 

And  yet  I  sighed,  when  she  was  gone, 
Above  our  sleeping  child. 

And  all  night  long,  as  soft  and  slow 

As  falls  the  falling  rain, 
The  thoughts  of  days  gone  long  ago 

Have  filled  my  heart  again. 

Once  more  I  hear  the  Rhine  rush  down, 

(I  hear  it  in  my  mind  !) 
Once  more,  about  the  sleeping  town, 

The  lamps  wink  in  the  wind. 

The  narrow,  silent  street  I  pass  : 
The  house  stands  o'er  the  river  : 

A  light  is  at  the  casement-glass, 
That  leads  my  soul  forever. 

I  feel  my  way  along  the  gloom, 
Stair  after  stair,  I  push  the  door : 

I  find  no  change  within  the  room, 
And  all  things  as  of  yore. 

One  little  room  was  all  we  had 
For  June  and  for  December. 

The  world  is  wide,  but  0  how  sai 
It  seems,  when  I  remember  ! 

The  cage  with  the  canary-bird 

Hangs  in  the  window  still : 
The  small  red  rose-tree  is  not  stimd 

Upon  the  window-sill. 

Wide  open  her  piano  stands  ; 

—  That  song  I  made  to  ease 
A  passing  pain  while  her  soft  hands 

Went  faintly  o'er  the  keys  ! 

The  fire  within  the  stove  burns  down  ; 

The  light  is  dying  fast. 
How  dear  is  all  it  shines  upon, 

That  firelight  of  the  Past ! 

No  sound  !  the  drowsy  Dutch-clock  tick^ 

0,  how  should  I  forget 
The  slender  ebon  crucifix, 

That  by  her  bed  is  set  ? 


200 


THE  WANDERER 


Her  litt.lt1  bod  is  white  as  snow, — 

Hmv  dear  that  little  bed  ! 
Sweet  dreams  about  the  curtains  go, 

And  whisper  round  her  head. 

That  gentle  head  sleeps  o'er  her  arm 

—  Sleeps  all  its  soft  brown  hair  : 
And  those  dear  clothes  of  hers,  yet  warm, 

Droop  open  on  the  chair. 

Yet  warm  the  snowy  petticoat ! 

The  dainty  corset  too  ! 
How  warm  the  ribbon  from  her  throat, 

And  warm  each  little  shoe  ! 

Lie  soft,  dear  arm  upon  the  pillow  ! 

Sleep,  foolish  little  head  ! 
Ah,  well  she  sleeps  !     I  know  the  willow 

That  curtains  her  cold  bed.  — 

Since  last  I  trod  that  silent  street 

'T  is  many  a  year  ago  : 
And,  if  I  there  could  set  my  feet 

Once  more,  I  do  not  know 

If  I  should  find  it  where  it  was, 

That  house  upon  the  river  : 
But  the  light  that  lit  the  casement-glass 

I  know  is  dark  forever. 

Hark  !    wheels  below,  .   .   .  my  lady's 
knock  ! 

—  Farewell,  the  old  romance  !  — 
Well,    dear,   you  're    late,  —  past    four 

o'clock  !  — 
How  often  did  you  dance  ? 

Not  cooler  from  the  crowning  waltz, 
She  takes  my  half  the  pillow.  — 

Well,  —  well  !  —  the   women   free  from 

faults 
Have  beds  below  the  willow  ! 


AT  HOME  AFTER  THE  BALL. 

THE  clocks  are  calling  Three 

Across  the  silent  floors. 
The  fire  in  the  library 

Dies  out ;  through  the  open  doors 
The  red  empty  room  you  may  see. 

In  the  nursery,  up  stairs, 
The  child  had  gone  to  si  rep, 

Half-way  'twixt  dreams  and  prayers, 
When  the  hall-door  made  him  leap 

To  its  thunders  unaware*. 


Like  love  in  a  worldly  breaat, 
Alone  in  my  lady's  chamber, 

The  lamp  burns  low,  supprest 
'Mid  satins  of  brmdered  amber. 

Where  she  stands,  half  undrest : 

Her  bosom  all  unlaced  : 

Her  cheeks  with  a  bright  red  spot : 
Her  long  dark  hair  displaced, 

Down  streaming,  heeded  not, 
From  her  white  throat  to  her  waist : 

She  stands  up  her  full  height, 

With  her  ball-dress  slipping  down  her, 
And  her  eyes  as  fixed  and  bright 

As  the  diamond  stars  that  crown  her,  — 
An  awful,  beautiful  sight. 

Beautiful,  yes  .  .  .  with  her  hair 
So  wild,  and  her  cheeks  so  flusht  I 

Awful,  yes  ...  for  there 
In  her  beauty  she  stands  husht 

By  the  pomp  of  her  own  despair  ! 

And  fixt  there,  without  doubt, 
Face  to  face  with  her  own  sorrow, 

She  will  stand,  till,  from  without, 
The  light  of  the  neighboring  morrow 

Creeps  in,  and  finds  her  out. 

With  last  night's  music  pealing 

Youth's  dirges  in  her  ears  : 
With  last  night's  lamps  revealing, 

In  the  charnels  of  old  years, 
The  face  of  each  dead  feeling. 

Ay,  Madam,  here  alone 

You  may  think,  till  your  heart  is  bro- 
ken, 
Of  the  love  that  is  dead  and  done, 

Of  the  days  that,  with  no  token, 
Forevermore  are  gone.  — 

Weep  if  you  can,  beseech  you  ! 

There  's  no  one  by  to  curb  you  : 
Your  child's  cry  cannot  reach  you  : 

Your  lord  will  not  disturb  you  : 
Weep  ! .  .  .  what  can  weeping  teach  you  ? 

Your  tears  are  dead  in  you. 

"What  harm,  whcreall  things  change," 
You  say,  ' '  if  we  change  too  ? 

—  The  old  still  sunny  Grange  ! 
Ah,  that 's  far  off  i*  the  dew. 

"  Were  those  not  pleasant  hours, 
Ere  I  was  what  I  am  ? 


IN  FRANCE. 


201 


My  garden  of  fresh  flowers  ! 

My  milk-white  weanling  lamb  ! 
My  bright  laburnum  bowers  ! 

"  The  orchard  walls  so  trim  ! 

The  redbreast  in  the  thorn  ! 
The  twilight  soft  and  dim  ! 

The  child's  heart !  eve  and  morn, 
So  rich  with  thoughts  of  him  1 " 

Hush  !  your  weanling  lamb  is  dead  : 

Your  garden  trodden  over. 
They  have  broken  the  farm  shed  : 

They  have  buried  your  first  lover 
With  the  grass  above  his  head. 

Has  the  Past,  then,  so  much  power, 
You  dare  take  not  from  the  shelf 

That  book  with  the  dry  flower, 
Lest  it  make  you  hang  yourself 

For  being  yourself  for  an  hour  ? 

Why  can't  you  let  thought  be 

For  even  a  little  while  ? 
There  's  nought  in  memory 

Can  bring  you  back  the  smile 
Those  lips  have  lost.     Just  see, 

Here  what  a  costly  gem 

To-night  in  your  hair  you  wore  — 
Pearls  on  a  diamond  stem  ! 

When  sweet  things  are  no  more, 
Better  not  think  of  them. 

Are  you  saved  by  pangs  that  pained  you, 
Is  there  comfort  in  all  it  cost  you, 

Before  the  world  had  gained  you, 
Before  that  God  had  lost  you, 

Or  your  soul  had  quite  disdained  you  ? 

For  your  soul  (and  this  is  worst 

To  bear,  as  you  well  know) 
Has  been  watching  you,  from  first, 

As  sadly  as  God  could  do  ; 
And  yourself  yourself  have  curst. 

Talk  of  the  flames  of  Hell ! 

We  fuel  ourselves,  I  conceive, 
The  fire  the  Fiend  lights.     Well, 

Believe  or  disbelieve, 
We  know  more  than  we  tell ! 

Surely  you  need  repose  ! 

To-morrow  again  —  the  Ball. 
And  you  must  revive  the  rose 

In  your  cheek,  to  bloom  for  all. 
Not  go  ? ...  why  the  whole  world  goes. 


To  bed  !  to  bed  !     'T  is  sad 
To  find  that  Fancy's  wings 

Have  lost  the  hues  they  had. 
In  thinking  of  these  things 

Some  women  have  gone  mad. 

AIT   CAFF, 

A  PARTY  of  friends,  all  light-hearted  and 

ga7> 

At  a  certain  French  cafe,  where  every 

one  goes, 

Are  met,  in  a  well-curtained  warm  cabi- 
net, 

Overlooking  a  street  there,  which  every 
one  knows. 

The  guests  are,  three  ladies  well  known 

and  admired  : 
One  adorns  the  Lyrique  ;  one  ...  I  oft 

have  beheld  her 
At  the   Vaudeville,  with  raptures ;  the 

third  lives  retired 

"Dans  ses  meubles  "...  (we  all  know 
her  house)  .  .  .  Rue  de  Helder. 

Besides  these  is  a  fourth  ...  a  young 

Englishman,   lately 
Presented  the  round  of  the  clubs  in 

the  town. 

A  taciturn  Anglican  coldness  sedately 
Invests  him  :   unthawed  by  Clarisse, 
he  sits  down. 

But  little  he  speaks,  and  but  rarely  he 

shares 
In    the    laughter    around   him ;    his 

smiles  are  but  few  ; 
There  's  a  sneer  in   the  look  that  his 

countenance  wears 

In  repose  ;   and  fatigue  in  the  eyes' 
weary  blue. 

The  rest  are  three  Frenchmen.     Three 

Frenchmen  (thank  heaven  !) 
Are   but   rarely  morose,  with  Cham- 
pagne and  Bordeaux  : 
And  their  wit,  and  their  laughter,  suf- 
fices to  leaven 

With  mirth  their  mute  guest's  imita- 
tion of  snow. 

The  dinner  is  done :  the  Lafitte  in  its 

basket, 

The  Champagne  in  its  cooler,  is  passed 
in  gay  haste  ; 


202 


THE  WANDERER. 


Whatever  you  wish  for,  you  have  but  to 

ask  it : 

Here  are  coffee,  cigars,  and  liqueurs 
to  your  taste. 

And  forth  from  the  bottles  the  corks  fly  ; 

and  chilly, 
The   bright   wine,    in    bubbling  and 

blushing,  confounds 
Its  warmth  with  the  ice  that  it  seethes 

round  ;  and  shrilly 
(Till  stifled  by  kisses)  the  laughter  re- 
sounds. 

Strike,   strike  the  piano,  beat  loud   at 

the  wall  ! 
Let  wealthy  old  Lycus  with  jealousy 

groan 
Next  door,  while  fair  Chloris  responds 

to  the  call, 
Too   fair  to   be  supping  with  Lycus 
alone  !  * 

Clarisse,  with  a  smile,  has  subsided,  op- 

prest,  — 
Half,    perhaps,    by    Champagne  .  .  . 

half,  perhaps,  by  affection,  — 
In  the  arms  of  the  taciturn,  cold,  Eng- 
lish guest, 

With,  just  rising  athwart  her  imperial 
complexion, 

One  tinge  that  young  Eviau    himself 

might  have  kist 
From   the   fairest    of    Maenads    that 

danced   in  his  troop  ; 
And  her  deep  hair,  unloosed  from  its 

sumptuous  twist, 

Overshowering    her    throat    and  her 
bosom  a-droop. 

The  soft  snowy  throat,  and  the  round, 

dimpled  chin, 
Upturned   from    the  arm-fold  where 

hangs  the  rich  head  ! 
And  the   warm   lips  apart,    while   the 

white  lids  begin 

To  close  over  the  dark  languid  eyes 
which  they  shade  ! 

And  next  to  Clarisse  (with  her  wild  hair 

all  wet 

From  the  wine,  in  whose  blush  its 
faint  fire-fly  gold 


"Audeat  invidus 
Demcntcm  strepitum  Lycus 
tt  vii-ina  seni  non  habilis  Lyco." 

HORACE. 


She  was  steeping  just  now),  the  blue- 

eyed  Juliette 

Is  murmuring  her  witty  bad  things  to 
Arnold. 

Cries  Arnold  to  the  dumb  English  guest 

..."  Mon  ami, 
What 's  the  matter  ? .  .  .  you  can't  sing 

.  .  .  well,  speak,  then,  at  least : 
More  grave,  had  a  man  seen  a  ghost, 

could  he  be  ? 

Mais  quel  drdle  de  farceur  !  . .  .  comme 
il  a  le  vin  triste  I " 

And  says  Charles    to   Eugene  (vainly 

seeking  to  borrow 
Ideas  from  a  yawn)  ..."  At  the  club 

there  are  three  of  us 
With  the  Duke,  and  we  play  lansquenet 

till  to-morrow  : 

I  am  off  on   the   spur  .  .  .  what   say 
you  ?  .  .  .  will  you  be  of  us  ? " 

"Mon  enfant,   tu  me   baudes — tu  me 

boudes,  cheri," 
Sighs  the  soft  Celestine  on  the  breast 

of  Eugene ; 
"A  h  bah  I  ne  me  fais  pas  poser,  mon 

amie," 

Laughs  her  lover,  and  lifts  to  his  lips 
—  the  Champagne. 

And  loud  from  the  bottles  the  corks  fly  ; 

and  chilly 
The  wine  gurgles  up  to  its  fine  crystal 

bounds. 
While   Charles    rolls    his  paper  cigars 

round,  how  shrilly 

(Till  kist  out)  the  laughter  of  Juliette 
resounds ! 

Strike,  strike   the  piano  !  beat  loud  at 

the  wall  ! 
Let  wealthy  old  Lycus  with  jealousy 

groan 
Next  door,  while  fair  Chloris  responds 

to  the  call, 

Too  fair  to   be   supping  with   Lycus 
alone. 

There  is  Celestine  singing,  and  Eugene 

is  swearing.  — 
In   the   midst   of    the   laughter,   the 

oaths,  and  the  songs, 
?alls  a  knock  at  the  door  ;  but  there 's 

nobody  hearing  : 

Each,  uninterrupted,   the   revel  pro- 
longs. 


IN   FRANCE. 


203 


Said    I  ...  "nobody    hearing?"   one 

only  ;  —  the  guest, 
The  morose  English  stranger,  so  dull 

to  the  charms 
Of  Clarisse,  and  Juliette,  Celestine,  and 

the  rest  ; 

Who  sits,  cold  as  a  stone,  with  a  girl 
in  his  arms. 

Once,   twice,   and  three  times,   he  has 

heard  it  repeated  ; 
And  louder,  and  fiercer,  each  time  the 

sound  falls. 
And  his  cheek  is  death  pale,  'mid  the 

others  so  heated  ; 

There 's  a  step  at  the  door,  too,  his 
fancy  recalls. 

And  he  rises  .  .  .  (just  so  an  automaton 

rises,  — 
Some  man  of  mechanics  made  up,  — 

that  must  move 
In  the  way  that  the  wheel  moves  within 

him  ;  —  there  lies  his 
Sole  path  fixt  before  him,  below  and 
above). 

He  rises  .  .  .  and,  scarcely  a  glance  cast- 
ing on  her, 
Flings  from  him  the  beauty  asleep  on 

his  shoulder  ; 

Charles  springs  to  his  feet ;  Eugene  mut- 
ters of  honor ; 

But  there  's  that  in  the  stranger  that 
awes  each  beholder. 

For  the  hue  on  his  cheek,  it  is  whiter 

than  whiteness  : 
The  hair  creeps  on  his  head  like  a 

strange  living  tiling. 
The  lamp  o'er  the  table  has  lost  half  its 

brightness  ; 

Juliette  cannot  laugh  ;  Celestine  can- 
not sing. 

He  has  opened  the  door  in  a  silence  un- 
broken : 
And  the  gaze   of  all  eyes  where  he 

stands  is  fixt  wholly: 
Not  a  hand  is  there  raised  ;  not  a  word 

is  there  spoken  : 

He  has  opened    the    door  ;  .  .  .  and 
there  comes  through  it  slowly 

A  woman,  as  pale  as  a  dame  on  a  tomb- 
stone, 
With  desolate  violet  eyes,  open  wide  ; 


Her  look,  as  she  turns  it,  turns  all  in 

the  room  stone  : 

She  sits  down  on  the  sofa,  the  stranger 
beside. 

Her  hair  it  is  yellow,  as  moonlight  on 

water 
Which  stones  in  some  eddy  torment 

into  waves  ; 
Her  lips  are  as  red  as  new  blood  spilt  In 

slaughter  ; 

Her  cheek  like  a  ghost's  seen  by  night 
o'er  the  graves. 

Her  place  by  the  taciturn  guest  she  has 

taken  ; 
And  the  glass  at  her  side  she  has  filled 

with  Champagne. 

As  she  bows  o'er  the  board,  all  the  rev- 
ellers awaken. 

She  has  pledged  her  mute  friend,  and 
she  fills  up  again. 

Clarisse  has  awaked  ;  and  with  shrieks 

leaves  the  table. 
Juliette  wakes,  and  faints  in  the  arms 

of  Arnold. 
And   Charles  and   Eugene,   with  what 

speed  they  are  able, 
Are  off  to  the  club,  where  this  tale 
shall  be  told. 

Celestine    for    her    brougham,   on    the 

stairs,  was  appealing, 
With  hysterical  sobs,  to  the  surly  con- 
cierge, 
When  a  ray  through  the  doorway  stole 

to  her,  revealing 

A  sight  that  soon  changed  her  appeal 
to  "  La  vierge." 

All  the  light-hearted  frignds  from  tha 

chamber  are  fled  : 
And  the  cafe  itself  has  grown  silent 

by  this. 
From  the  dark  street  below,    you  can 

scarce  hear  a  tread, 
Save  the  Gendarme's,  who  reigns  there 
as  gloomy  as  Dis. 

The  shadow  of  night  is  beginning  to  flit : 
Through  the  gray  window  shimmers 

the  motionless  town. 
The  ghost  and  the  stranger,   together 

they  sit 

Side  \>y  side  at  the  table  —  the  place 
is  their  own. 


204 


THE    WANDERER. 


They  nod  and  change  glances,  that  pale 

man  and  woman  ; 
For  they  both  are  well  known  to  each 

other :  and  then, 

Some  ghosts  have  a  look  that 's  so  hor- 
ribly human, 

In  the  street  you  might  meet  them, 
and  take  them  for  men. 

"Thou  art  changed,  my  beloved!   and 

the  lines  have  grown  stronger, 
And  the  curls  have  grown  scanter, 

that  meet  on  thy  brow. 
Ah,  faithless  !  and  dost  thou  remember 

no  longer 

The  hour  of  our  passion,  the  words  of 
thy  vow  ? 

"  Thy  kiss,  on  my  lips  it  is  burning  for- 
ever ! 
I  cannot  sleep  calm,  for  my  bed  is  so 

cold. 
Embrace  me  !  close  .  .  .  closer  ...  0  let 

us  part  never, 

And  let  all  be  again  as  it  once  was  of 
old  ! " 

So  she  murmurs  repiningly  ever.     Her 

breath 
Lifts  his  hair  like  a  night-wind  in 

winter.     And  he  ... 
"Thy  hand,  0  Irene,  is  icy  as  death, 
But    thy  face   is   unchanged    in    its 
beauty  to  me." 

"'Tis  so  cold,  my  beloved  one,  down 

there,  and  so  drear." 
"Ah,  thy  sweet  voice,  Irene,  sounds 

hollow  and  strange  !  " 
"  T  is  the  ehills  of  the  grave  that  have 

changed  it,  I  fear  : 
But  the  voice  of  my  heart  there's  no 

chill  that  can  change." 

"  Ha  !  thy  pale  cheek  is  flusht  with  a 

heat  like  my  own. 
Is  it  breath,  is  it  flame,  on  thy  lips 

that  is  burning  ? 
Ha  !  thy  heart  flutters  wild,  as  of  old, 

'neath  thy  zone. 

And  those  cold  eyes  of  thine  fill  with 
passionate  yearning." 

Thus,  embracing  each  other,  they  bend 

and  they  waver, 

And,  laughing  and  weeping,  converse. 
The  pale  ghost, 


As  the  wine  warms  the  grave-worm  wrtn- 

in  her,  grown  braver, 
Fills  her  glass  to  the  brim,  and  pro 
poses  a  toast. 

"Here's  a  health   to  the  glow-worm, 

Death's  sober  lamplighter, 
That  saves  from  the  darkness  below 

the  gravestone 

The  tomb's  pallid  pictures  .  .  .  the  sad- 
der the  brighter; 

Shapes    of    beauty    each    stony-eyi-.'. 
corpse  there  hath  known  : 

"  Mere  rough  sketches  of  life,  where  a 

glimpse  goes  for  all, 
Which  the  Master  keeps  (all  the  rest 

let  the  world  have  ! ) 
But    though    only    rough-scrawled    on 

the  blank  charnel  wall, 
Is  their  truth  the  less  sharp,  that 't  is 
sheathed  in  the  grave  ? 

"  Here's  to  Love  .  .  .  the  prime  passion 

.  .  .  the  harp  that  we  sung  to 
In  the  orient  of  youth,  in  the   days 

pure  of  pain  ; 
The  cup  that  we  quaffed  in  :  the  stirrup 

we  sprung  to, 

So  light,  ere  the  journey  was  made  — 
and  in  vain  ! 

"0   the  life  that  we  lived  once!   the 

beauty  so  fair  once  ! 
Let  them  go  !  wherefore  weep  for  what 

tears  could  not  save  ? 
What  old  trick  sets  us  aping  the  fools 

that  we  were  once, 

And  tickles  our  brains  even  under  the 
grave? 

"  There 's  a  small  stinging  worm  which 

the  grave  ever  breeds 
From   the  folds  of  the   shroud   that 

around  us  is  spread  : 
There 's  a  little  blind  maggot  that  revels 

and  feeds 

On  the  life  of  the  living,  the  sleep  of 
the  dead. 

"To  our  friends  !  .  .  .  "     But  the  full 

flood  of  dawn  through  the  pane, 

Having  slowly  rolled  down  the  huge 

street  there  unheard 
(While  the  great,  new,  blue  sky,  o'er  the 

white  Madeleine 

Was  wide  opening  itself),  from  her  lip 
washed  the  word  ; 


IN   FRANCE. 


205 


Washed  her  face  faint  and  fainter  ;  while, 

dimmer  and  dimmer, 
In  its  seat,  the  pale  form  flickered  out 

like  a  flame, 
As  broader,  and  brighter,  and  fuller,  the 

glimmer 

Of  day  through  the  heat-cloud§d  win- 
dow became. 

And  the  day  mounts  apace.     Some  one 

opens  the  door. 

In  shuffles  a  waiter  with  sleepy  red  eyes : 
He  stares  at  the  cushions  flung  loose  on 

the  floor, 

On  the  bottles,  the  glasses,  the  plates, 
with  surprise. 

Stranger  still !  he  sees  seated  a  man  at 

the  table, 
With  his  head  on  his  hands  :   in  a 

slumber  he  seems, 
So  wild,  and  so  strange,  he  no  longer  is 

able 

In  silence  to  thrid  through  the  path 
of  his  dreams. 

For  he  moans,  and  he  mutters  :  he  moves 

and  he  motions  : 
To  the  dream  that  he  dreams  o'er  his 

wine-cup  he  pledges. 
And  his  sighs  sound,  through  sleep,  like 

spent  winds  over  ocean's 
Last  verge,  where  the  world  hides  its 
outermost  edges. 

The  gas-lamp  falls  sick  in  the  tube  :  and 

so,  dying, 
To  the  fumes  of  spilt  wine,  and  cigars 

but  half  smoked, 
Adds  the  stench  of  its  last  gasp  :  chairs 

broken  are  lying 

All  about  o'er  the  carpet  stained,  lit- 
tered, and  soaked. 

A  touch  starts  the  sleeper.     He  wakes. 

It  is  day. 
And   the  beam  that   dispels  all  the 

phantoms  of  night 
Through  the  rooms  sends  its  kindly  and 

comforting  ray : 

The    streets    are    new-peopled :    the 
morning  is  bright. 

And  the  city 's  so  fair  !   and  the  dawn 

breaks  so  brightly  ! 
With  gay  flowers  in  the  market,  gay 
girls  in  the  street, 


Whate'er  the  strange  beings  that  visit 

us  nightly, 

When  Paris  awakes,  from  her  smile 
they  retreat. 

I  myself  have,  at  morning,  beheld  them 

departing  ; 

Some  in  masks,  and  in  dominos,  foot- 
ing it  on  ; 
Some  like  imps,   some  like  fairies ;  at 

cockcrow  all  starting, 
And  speedily  flitting  from  sight  one 
by  one. 

And  that  wonderful  night-flower,  Mem- 
ory, that,  tearful, 
Unbosoms  to  darkness  her  heart  full 

of  dew, 
Folds  her  leaves  round  again,  and  from 

day  shrinks  up  fearful 
In  the  cleft  of  her  ruin,  the  shade  of 
her  yew. 

This  broad  daylight  life's  strange  enough  : 

and  wherever 
We  wander,  or  walk  ;  in  the  club,  in 

the  streets : 
Not  a  straw  on  the  ground  is  too  trivial 

to  sever 

Each  man  in  the  crowd  from  the  others 
he  meets. 

Each  walks  with  a  spy  or  a  jailer  behind 

him 
(Some  word  he  has  spoken,  some  deed 

he  has  done)  ; 
And  the  step,  now  and  then,  quickens, 

just  to  remind  him, 
In  the  crowd,  in  the  sun,  that  he  is 
not  alone. 

But 't  is  hard,  when  by  lamplight,  'mid 

laughter  and  songs  too, 
Those  return,  ...  we  have  buried,  and 

mourned  for,  and  prayed  for, 
And  done  with  .  .  .  and,  free  of  the  grave 

it  belongs  to, 

Some  ghost  drinks  your  health  in  the 
wine  you  have  paid  for. 

Wreathe  the  rose,  0  Young  Man  ;  pour 

the  wine.     What  thou  hast 
That  enjoy  all  the  days  of  thy  youth. 

Spare  thou  naught. 
Yet  beware  !  ...  at  the  board  sits  a 

ghost  —  't  is  the  Past ; 
In  thy  heart  lurks  a  weird  Necroman- 
cer —  't  is  Thought. 


206 


THE  WANDERER. 


THE  CHESS-BOARD. 

MY  little  love,  do  you  remember, 

Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
<  'urtained  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  ami  I  played  chess  together, 

Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes  ? 

Ah,  still  I  see  your  soft  white  hand 
Hovering  warm  o'er  Queen  and  Knight. 

Brave  Pawns  in  valiant  battle  stand. 
The  double  Castles  guard  the  wings  : 
The  Bishop,  bent  on  distant  tilings, 
Moves,  sidling  through  the  fight. 

Our  fingers  touch  ;  our  glances  meet, 

And  falter  ;  falls  your  golden  hair 

Against  my  cheek  ;  your  bosom  sweet 
Is  heaving.  Down  the  field,  your  Queen 
Rides  slow  her  soldiery  all  between, 

And  checks  me  unaware. 

Ah  me  !  the  little  battle 's  done, 
Disperst  is  all  its  chivalry  ; 
Full  many  a  move,  since  then,  have  we 
'Mid  Life's  perplexing  checkers  made, 
And     many    a     game     with     Fortune 
played,  — 

What  is  it  we  have  won  ? 

This,  this  at  least  —  if  this  alone  ;  — 
That  never,  never,  never  more, 
As  in  those  old  still  nights  of  yore 

(Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise), 

Can  you  and  I  shut  out  the  skies, 
Shut  out  the  world,  and  wintry  weather, 

And,  eyes  exchanging  warmth  with 

eyes, 
Play  chess,  as  then  we  played,  together  ! 


SONG. 

IF  Sorrow  have  taught  me  anything, 

She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for  you  ; 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear  to 
shed 

For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true. 
If  the  one  star  left  by  the  morning 

Be  dear  to  the  dying  night, 
If  the  late  lone  rose  of  October 

Be  sweetest  to  scent  and  sight, 
If  the  last  of  the  leaves  in  December 

Be  dear  to  the  desolate  tree, 
Remember,  beloved,  0  remember 

How  dear  is  your  beauty  to  me  ! 

And  more  dear  than  the  gold,  is  the  silver 
Grief  hath  sown  in  that  hair's  young 
gold: 


And  lovelier  than  youth  is  the  language 
Of  the  thoughts  that  have  made  youUi 

old  ; 
We  must  love,  and  unlove,  and  forget, 

dear  — 

Fashion  and  shatter  the  spell 
Of  how  many  a  love  in  a  life,  dear  — 

Ere  life  learns  to  love  once  and  love  well. 
Then  what  matters  it,  yesterday's  sorrow  ? 

Since  1  have  outlived  it  — 
And  what  matter  the  cares  of  to-morrow, 
Since  you,  dear,  will  share  them  with 
me? 

To  love  it  is  hard,  and  't  is  harder 

Perchance  to  be  loved  again  : 
But  you  '11  love  me,  I  know,  now  I  love 
3"ou.  — 

What  I  seek  I  am  patient  to  gain. 
To  the  tears  1  have  .shed,  and  regret  not, 

What  matter  a  few  more  tears  ? 
Or  a  few  days'  waiting  longer, 

To  one  that  has  waited  for  years  ? 
Hush  !  lay  your  head  on  my  breast,  there. 

Not  a  word  !  .  .  .  while  I  weep  for 

your  sake, 
Sleep,  and  forget  me,  and  rest  there  : 

My  heart  will  wait  warm  till  you  wake. 
For  --  if  Sorrow  have  taught  me  any- 
thing 

She  hath  taught  me  to  weep  for  you  ; 
And  if  Falsehood  have  left  me  a  tear  to 
shed 

For  Truth,  these  tears  are  true  ! 


THE  LAST  REMONSTRANCE. 

YES  !  I  am  worse  than  thou  didst  once 

believe  me. 
Worse  than  thou  deem'st  me  now  I 

cannot  be  — 
But  say  "  the  Fiend  's  no  blacker,"  .  .  . 

canst  thou  leave  me  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  flee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  bear  the  relics  of  the 

days 
Squandered  round  this  dethroned  love 

of  thine  ? 

Hast  thou  the  silver  and  the  gold  to  raise 
A  new  God's  shrine  ? 

Thy  cheek  hath  lost  its  roundness  and 

its  bloom  : 

Who  will  forgive  those  signs  where 
tears  have  fed 


IN   FRANCE. 


207 


On  thy  once  lustrous  eyes,  —  save  he  for 

whom 
Those  tears  were  shed  ? 

Know  I  not  every  grief  whose  course  hath 

sown 
Lines  on  thy  brow,  and  silver  in  thy 

hair? 
Will  new  love  learn  the  language,  mine 

alone 
Hath  graven  there  ? 

Despite   the    blemisht    beauty   of   thy 

brow, 
Thou  wouldst  be  lovely,  couldst  thou 

love  again  ; 

For  Love  renews  the  Beautiful :  but  thou 
Hast  only  pain. 

How  wilt  thou  bear  from  pity  to  im- 
plore 
What  once  those   eyes  from  rapture 

could  command  ? 
How  wilt  thou   stretch  —  who  wast  a 

Queen  of  yore  — 
A  suppliant's  hand  ? 

Even  were  thy  heart  content  from  love 

to  ask 
No  more  than  needs  to  keep  it  from 

the  chill, 
Hast  thou  the  strength  to  recommence 

the  task 
Of  pardoning  still  ? 

Wilt  thou  to  one,  exacting  all  that  I 
Have  lost  the  right  to  ask  for,  still 

extend 
Forgiveness   on   forgiveness,   with  that 

sigh 
That  dreads  the  end  ? 

Ah,  if  thy  heart  can  pardon  yet,  why 

yet 
Should  not  its  latest  pardon  be  for 

me? 
For  who  will  bend,  the  boon  he  seeks  to 

get, 
On  lowlier  knee  ? 

Where  wilt  thou  find  the   unworthier 

heart  than  mine, 
That  it  may  be  more  grateful,  or  more 

lowly  ? 
To  whom  else,  pardoning  much,  become 

divine 
By  pardoning  wholly  ? 


Hath  not  thy  forehead  paled  beneath  my 

kiss? 
And  through  thy  life  have  I  not  writ 

my  name  ? 
Hath  not  my  soul  signed  thine  ?  .  .  .  I 

gave  thee  bliss, 
If  I  gave  shame  : 

The  shame,  but  not  the  bliss,  where'er 

thou  goest, 
Will  haunt  thee  yet :  to  me  no  shame 

thou  hast : 
To  me  alone,  what  now  thou  art,  thou 

knowest 
By  what  thou  wast. 

What  other  hand  will  help  thy  heart  to 

swell 
To  raptures  mine  first  taught  it  how 

to  feel  ? 
Or  from  the  unchorded  harp  and  vacant 

shell 
New  notes  reveal  ? 

Ah,  by  my  dark  and  sullen  nature  nurst, 
And  rocked  by  passion  on  this  stormy 

heart, 
Be  mine  the  last,  as  thou  wert  mine  the 

first ! 
We  dare  not  part ! 

At  best  a  fallen  Angel  to  mankind, 
To  me  be  still  the  seraph  I  have  dared 

To  show  my  hell  to,  and  whose  love  re- 
signed 
Its  pain  hath  shared. 

If,  faring  on  together,  I  have  fed 
Thy  lips  on  poisons,  they  were  sweet 

at  least, 
Nor  couldst  thou  thrive  where  holier  Love 

hath  spread 
His  simpler  feast. 

Change  would  be  death.     Could  sever- 
ance from  my  side 
Bring  thee  repose,   I  wo\ild  not  bid 

thee  stay. 
My  love  should  meet,  as  calmly  as  my 

pride, 
That  parting  day. 

It  may  not  be  :  for  thou  couldst  not  for- 
get me,  — 

Not  that  my  own  is  more  than  other 
natures. 


208 


T1IK   WANDERER. 


But  that 't  is  diflVrriit :  and  tliou  wouldst 

regret  me 
'Mid  purer  creatures. 

Then,  if  love's  first  ideal  now  grows  wan, 
And    thou   wilt  love   again,  —  again 
love  me, 

For  what  1  am  :  —  no  hero,  but  a  man 
Still  loving  thee. 


SORCERY. 


You  "re  a  milk-white  Panther  : 

1  "m  a  Genius  of  the  air. 
You  're  a  Princess  once  enchanted  ; 

That  is  why  you  seem  so  fair. 

For  a  crime  untold,  unwritten, 

That  was  done  an  age  ago, 
I  have  lost  my  wings,  and  wander 

In  the  wilderness  below. 

In  a  dream  too  long  indulged, 

In  a  Palace  by  the  sea, 
You  were  changed  to  what  you  are 

By  a  muttered  sorcery. 

Your  name  came  on  my  lips 

When  I  first  looked  in  your  eyes  : 

At  my  feet  you  fawned,  you  knew  me 
In  despite  of  all  disguise. 

The  black  elephants  of  Delhi 
Are  the  wisest  of  their  kind, 

And  the  libbards  of  Soumatra 
Are  full  of  eyes  behind  : 

But  they  guessed  not,  they  divined  not, 
They  believed  me  of  the  earth, 

When  I  walked  among  them,  mourning 
For  the  region  of  my  birth. 

Till  I  found  you  in  the  moonlight. 

Then  at  once  I  knew  it  all. 
You  were  sleeping  in  the  sand  here, 

But  you  wakened  to  my  call. 

I  knew  why,  in  your  slumber, 
You  were  moaning  piteously  : 

You  heard  a  sound  of  harping 
From  a  Palace  by  the  sea. 

Through  the  wilderness  together 
We  must  wander  everywhere, 


Till  we  find  the  magic  berry 

That  shall  make  us  \vh:it"wo  were. 

'T  is  a  berry  sweet  and  bitter, 
I  have  heard  ;  there  is  but  one  ; 

On  a  tall  tree,  by  a  fountain, 
In  the  desert  all  alone. 

When  at  last 't  is  found  and  eaten, 
We  shall  both  be  what  we  were  ; 

You,  a  Princess  of  the  water, 
I,  a  Genius  of  the  air. 

See  !  the  Occident  is  flaring 
Far  behind  us  in  the  skies, 

And  our  shadows  float  before  us. 
Night  is  coming  forth.    Arise ! 


ADIEU,   MIGNONNE,   MA  BELLE. 

ADIEU,  Mignonne,  ma  belle  .  .  .  when 

you  are  gone, 
Vague  thoughts  of  you  will  wander, 

searching  love 
Through  this  dim  heart  :   through  this 

dim  room,  Mignonne, 
Vague  fragrance  from  your  hair  and 
dress  will  move. 

How  will  you  think  of  this  poor  heart 

to-morrow, 
This  poor  fond  heart  with  all  its  joy 

in  you  ? 
Which  you  were  fain  to  lean  on,  once, 

in  sorrow, 

Though  now  you  bid  it  such  a  light 
adieu. 

You  '11  sing  perchance  ..."  I  passed  a 

night  of  dreams 
Once,  in  an  old  inn's  old  worm-eaten 

bed, 
Passing  on  life's  highway.    How  strange 

it  seems, 

That  never  more  I  there  shall  lean  my 
head  ! " 

Adieu,  Mignonne,  adieu,  Mignonne,  ma 

belle  ! 
Ah,  little  witch,  our  greeting  was  so 

gay. 

Our  love  so  painless,  who  'd  have  thought 

"  Farewell" 
Could  ever  be  so  sad  a  word  to  say  ? 


IN  FRANCE. 


209 


I  leave  a  thousand  fond  farewells  with 

you  : 
Some   for  your  red  wet  lips,   which 

were  so  sweet : 
Some  for  your  darling  eyes,  so  dear,  so 

blue  : 

Some  for  your  wicked,  wanton  little 
feet: 

But    for   your   little    heart,    not    yet 

awake,  — 
What  can  I  leave  your  little  heart, 

Mignonne  ? 

It  seems  so  fast  asleep,  I  fear  to  break 
The  poor  thing's    slumber.      Let  it 
still  sleep  on  ! 


TO  MIGNONNE. 

AT  morning,  from  the  sunlight 
I  shall  miss  your  sunny  face, 

Leaning,  laughing,  on  my  shoulder 
With  its  careless  infant  grace  ; 
And  your  hand  there, 

With  its  rosy,  inside  color, 
And  the  sparkle  of  its  rings  ; 

And  your  soul  from  this  old  chamber 
Missed  in  fifty  little  things, 
When  I  stand  there. 

And  the  roses  in  the  garden 
Droop  stupid  all  the  day,  — 

Red,  thirsty  mouths  wide  open, 
With  not  a  word  to  say  ! 
Their  last  meaning 

Is  all  faded,  like  a  fragrance, 

From  the  languishing  late  flowers, 
With  your  feet,  your  slow  white  move- 
ments, 

And  your  face,  in  silent  hours, 
O'er  them  leaning. 

And,  in  long,  cool  summer  evenings, 

I  shall  never  see  you,  drest 
In  those  pale  violet  colors 

Which  suit  your  sweet  face  best. 
Here  's  your  glove,  child, 

Soiled  and  empty,  as  you  left  it, 

Yet  your  hand's  warmth  seems  to  stay 
In  it  still,  as  though  this  moment 
You  had  drawn  your  hand  away  ; 
Like  your  love,  child, 
14 


Which  still  stays  about  my  fancy. 

See  this  little,  silken  boot.  — 
What  a  plaything  !  was  there  ever 

Such  a  slight  and  slender  foot  ? 
Is  it  strange  now 

How  that,  when  your  lips  are  nearest 

To  the  lips  they  feed  upon 
For  a  summer  time,  till  bees  sleep, 

On  a  sudden  you  are  gone  ? 

What  new  change  now 

Sets  you  sighing  .  .  .  eyes  uplifted 

To  the  starry  night  above  ? 
"God  is  great .  .  .  the  soul's  immortal.  .  . 

Must  we  die,  though ! ...  Do  you  love  ? 
One  kiss  more,  then  : 

"Life  might  end  now  !"  .  .  .  And  next 

moment 

With  those  wicked  little  feet, 
You  have  vanished,  —  like  a  Fairy 
From  a  fountain  in  the  heat, 
And  all  's  o'er,  then. 

Well,  no  matter  !  .  .  .  hearts  are  breaking 

Every  day,  but  not  for  you, 
Little  wanton,  ever  making 

Chains  of  rose,  to  break  them  through. 
I  would  mourn  you, 

But  your  red  smile  was  too  warm,  Sweet, 
And  your  little  heart  too  cold, 

And  your  blue  eyes  too  blue  merely, 
For  a  strong,  sad  man  to  scold, 
Weep,  or  scorn,  you. 

For  that  smile's  soft,  transient  sunshine 
At  my  hearth,  when  it  was  chill, 

I  shall  never  do  your  name  wrong, 
But  think  kindly  of  you  still ; 
And  each  moment 

Of  your  pretty  infant  angers, 
(Who  could  help  but  smile  at ... 

when 
Those  small  feet  would  stamp  our  love 

out?) 

Why,  I  pass  them  now,  as  then, 
Without  comment. 

Only,  here,  when  I  am  searching 

For  the  book  I  cannot  find, 
I  must  sometimes  pass  your  boudoir, 

Howsoever  disinclined  ; 

And  niust  meet  there 


210 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  cold  bird-cage  in  the  window, 
Where  no  bird  is  singing  now  ; 

The  small  sofa  and  the  footstool, 

Where  I  miss  ...  I  know  not  how  .  .  . 
Your  young  feet  there, 

Silken-soft  in  each  quaint  slipper ; 

Anil  the  jewelled  writing-case, 
Where  you  never  more  will  write  now  ; 

And  the  vision  of  your  face, 
Just  turned  to  me  :  — 

I  would  save  this,  if  I  could,  child, 
But  that 's  all.  .  .  .  September  's  here  ! 

I  must  write  a  book  :  read  twenty  : 
Learn  a  language  .  .  .  what 's  to  fear  ? 
Who  grows  gloomy 

Being  free  to  work,  as  I  am  ? 

Yet  these  autumn  nights  are  cold. 
How  I  wonder  how  you  '11  pass  them  ! 

Ah,  .  .  .  could  all  be  as  of  old  ! 
But  't  is  best  so. 

All  good  things  must  go  for  better, 
As  the  primrose  for  the  rose. 

Is  love  free  ?  why  so  is  life,  too  ! 
Holds  the  grave  fast  ?  .  .  .  I  suppose 
Things  must  rest  so. 


COMPENSATION. 

WHEN  the  days  are  silent  all 

Till  the  drear  light  falls  ; 
And  the  nights  pass  with  the  pall 

Of  Love's  funerals  ; 

When  the  heart  is  weighed  with  years; 
And  the  eyes  too  weak  for  tears  ; 
And  life  like  death  appears  ; 

Is  it  nought,  0  soul  of  mine, 

To  hear  i'  the  windy  track 
A  voice  with  a  song  divine 

Calling  thy  footsteps  back 
To  the  land  thou  lovest  best, 
Toward  the  Garden  in  the  West 
Where  thou  hast  once  been  blest  ? 

IB  it  nought,  0  aching  brow, 

To  feel  in  the  dark  hour, 
Which  came,  though  called,  so  slow, 

And,    though    loathed,    yet    lingers 

slower, 

A  hand  upon  thy  pain, 
Lovingly  laid  again, 
Smoothing  the  ruffled  brain.  ? 


0  love,  my  own  and  only  ! 

The  seraphs  shall  not  see 
By  my  looks  that  life  was  lonely  ; 

But  that  't  was  blest  by  thee. 
If  few  lives  have  been  more  lone, 
Few  have  more  rapture  known, 
Than  mine  and  thine,  my  own  ! 

When  the  lamp  burns  dim  and  dim- 
mer ; 

And  the  curtain  close  is  drawn  ; 
And  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer 

With  a  supernatural  dawn  ; 
And  the  Genius  at  the  door 
Turns  the  torch  down  to  the  floor, 
Till  the  world  is  seen  no  more  ; 

In  the  doubt,  the  dark,  the  fear, 

'Mid  the  spirits  come  to  take  thee, 
Shall  mine  to  thine  be  near, 

And    my    kiss    the     first    to    wake 

thee. 

Meanwhile,  in  life's  December, 
On  the  wind  that  strews  the  ember, 
Shall  a  voice  still  moan  ..."  Remem- 
ber ! " 


TRANSLATIONS      FROM      PETER 
RONSARD. 

"  VOICI  LE  BOIS  QUE  MA  SAINCTE  AN- 
GELETTE." 

HERE  is  the  wood  that  freshened  to  her 

song; 
See  here,   the  flowers  that  keep  her 

footprints  yet ; 
Where,  all  alone,  my  saintly  Angel- 

ette 

Went    wandering,    with    her    maiden 
thoughts,  along. 

Here  is  the    little    rivulet  where  she 

stopped  ; 
And  here  the  greenness  of  the  grass 

shows  where 
She  lingered  through  it,  searching  here 

and  there 

Those  daisies  dear,  which  in  her  breast 
she  dropped. 

Here  did  she  sing,  and  here  she  wept, 

and  here 
Her  smile  came  back  ;  and  here  I  seem 

to  hear 
Those  faint  half-words  with  which  my 

thoughts  are  rife  ; 


IN   FRANCE. 


211 


Here  did  she  sit ;  here,  childlike,  did 

she  dance, 

To  some  vague  impulse  of  her  own  ro- 
mance — 

Ah,  Love,  on  all  these  thoughts,  winds 
out  my  life  ! 

"CACHE  POUR  CETTE  NUICT." 

HIDE,  for  a  night,  thy  horn,  good  Moon  ! 

Fair  fortune 

For  this  shall  keep  Endymion  ever  prest 
Deep  -  dreaming,    amorous,    on  thine 

argent  breast, 
Nor  ever  shall  enchanter  thee  importune. 

Hateful  to  me  the  day  ;  most  sweet  the 

night !  • 

I  fear  the  myriad  meddling  eyes  of  day  ; 
But  courage  comes  with  night.     Close, 

close,  1  pray, 

Your  curtains,  dear  dark  skies,  on  my 
delight ! 

Thou  too,  thou  Moon,  thou  too  hast  felt 

love's  power ! 
Pan,  with  a  white  fleece,  won  thee  for  an 

hour ; 
And  you,  sidereal  Signs  in  yonder  blue, 

Favor  the  fire  to  which  my  heart  is  moved. 

Forget  not,  Signs,  the  greater  part  of  you 

Was  only  set  in  heaven  for  having  loved  ! 

"PAGE  SUY  MOY." 

FOLLOW,  my  Page,  where  the  green  grass 

embosoms 
The  enamelled  Season's  freshest-fallen 

dew  ; 
Then  home,  and  my  still  house  with 

handfuls  strew 

Of  frail-lived  April's  newliest  nurtured 
blossoms. 

Take  from  the  wall  now,  my  song-tune"d 

Lyre  ; 
Here  will  I  sit  and  charm  out  the 

sweet  pain 
Of  a  dark  eye  whose  light  hath  burned 

my  brain, 
The  unloving  loveliness  of  my  desire .' 

And  here  my  ink,  and  here  my  papers, 

place  :  — 
A  hundred  leaves  of  white,  whereon  to 

trace 
A  hundred  words  of  desultory  woe  — 


Words  which  shall  last,  like  graven  dia- 
monds, sure ;  — 

That,  some  day  hence,  a  future  race 
may  know 

And  ponder  on  the  pain  which  I  endure. 

"  LES  ESPICES  SONT  A  CERES." 

CERES  hath  her  harvest  sweet : 
Chlora's  is  the  young  green  grass  : 

Woods  for  Fauns  with  cloven  feet : 
His  green  laurel  Phoebus  has  : 

Minerva  has  her  Olive-tree  : 

And  the  Pine 's  for  Cybele. 

Sweet  sounds  are  for  Zephyr's  wings  : 
Sweet  fruit  for  Pomona's  bosom  : 

For  the  Nymphs  are  crystal  springs 
And  for  Flora  bud  and  blossom  : 

But  sighs  and  tears,  and  sad  ideas, 

These  alone  are  Cytherea's. 

"MA  DOUCE  JOUVENCE." 

MY  sweet  youth  now  is  all  done  ; 
The  strength  and  the  beauty  are  gone. 
The  tooth  now  is  black,  and  the  head 

now  is  white, 
And  the  nerves  now  are  loosed  :  in  the 

veins 

Only  water  (not  blood  now)  remains, 
Where  the  pulse  beat  of  old  with  de- 
light. 

Adieu,  0  my  lyre,  0  adieu, 
You  sweet  women,  my  lost  loves,  and  you 
Each  dead  passion  ! .  .  .  The  end  creep- 

eth  nigher.. 

Not  one  pastime  of  youth  has  kept  pace 
With  my  age.     Nought  remains  in  their 

place 
But  the  bed,  and  the  cup,  and  the  fire. 

My  head  is  confused  with  low  fears, 
And  sickness,  and  too  many  years  ; 

Some  care  in  each  corner  I  meet  — 
And,  wherever  I  linger  or  go, 
I  turn  back,  and  look  after,  to  know 

If  the  Death  be  still  dogging  my  feet : — 

Dogging  me  down  the  dark  stair, 
Which  windeth,  I  cannot  tell  where, 

To  some  Pluto  that  opens  forever 
His  cave  to  all  comers —  Alas  ! 
How  easily  down  it  all  pass, 

And  return  from  it  —  never,  ah,  never ! 


212 


THE  WANDERER. 


BOOK  III.  -IN  ENGLAND. 


THE  ALOE. 

A  STRANGER  sent  from  burning  lands, 
In  realms  where  buzz  and  mutter  yet 

Old  gods,  with  hundred  heads  and  hands, 
On  jewelled  thrones  of  jet, — 

(Old  gods  as  old  as  Time  itself,) 
And,  in  a  hot  and  level  calm, 

Recline  o'er  many  a  sandy  shelf 
Dusk  forms  beneath  the  palm,  — 

To  Lady  Eve,  who  dwells  beside 
The  river-meads,  and  oak-trees  tall, 

Whose  dewy  shades  encircle  wide 
Her  old  Baronial  Hall, 

An  Indian  plant  with  leaves  like  horn, 
And,  all  along  its  stubborn  spine, 

Mere  humps,  with  angry  spike  and  thorn 
Armed  like  the  porcupine. 

In  midst  of  which  one  sullen  bud 
Surveyed  the  world,  with  head  aslant, 

High-throned,  and  looking  like  the  god 
Of  this  strange  Indian  plant. 

A  stubborn  plant,  from  looking  cross 
It  seemed  no  kindness  could  retrieve  ! 

But  for  his  sake  whose  gift  it  was 
It  pleased  the  Lady  Eve. 

She  set  it  on  the  terraced  walk, 

Within  her  own  fair  garden -ground  ; 

And  every  morn  and  eve  its  stalk 
Was  duly  watered  round. 

And  every  eve  and  morn,  the  while 
She  tended  this  uncourteous  thing, 

I  stood  beside  her,  —  watched  her  smile, 
And  often  heard  her  sing. 

The  roses  I  at  times  would  twist 
To  deck  her  hair,  she  oft  forgot ; 

But  never  that  dark  aloe  missed 
The  daily  watering-pot. 

She  seemed  so  gay,  —  I  felt  so  sad,  — 
Her  laugh  but  made  me  frown  the  more : 

For  each  light  word  of  hers  I  had 
Some  sharp  reply  in  store. 


Until  she  laughed  .  .  .  "This  aloe  shows 
A  kindlier  nature  than  your  own  "... 

Ah,  Eve,  you  little  dreamed  what  foes 
The  plant  and  I  had  grown  ! 

At  last,  one  summer  night,  when  all 
The  garden-flowers  were  dreaming  still, 

And  still  the  old  Baronial  Hall, 
The  oak-trees  on  the  hill, 

A  loud  and  sudden  sound  there  stirred, 
As  \j'hen  a  thunder-cloud  is  torn  ; 

Such  thunder-claps  are  only  heard 
When  little  gods  are  born. 

The  echo  went  from  place  to  place, 
And  wakened  every  early  sleeper. 

Some  said  that  poachers  in  the  chase 
Had  slain  a  buck  —  or  keeper. 

Some  hinted  burglars  at  the  door : 
Some  questioned  if  it  had  not  light- 
ened : 

While  all  the  maids,  as  each  one  swore, 
From  their  seven  wits  were  frightened. 

The  peacocks  screamed,  and  every  rook 
Upon  the  elms  at  roost  did  caw  : 

Each  inmate  straight  the  house  forsook : 
They  searched  —  and,  last,  —  they  saw 

That  sullen  bud  to  flower  had  burst 
Upon  the  sharp-leaved  aloe  there  ;  — 

A  wondrous  flower,  whose  breath  disperst 
Rich  odors  on  the  air. 

A  flower,  colossal  —  dazzling  white, 
And  fair  as  is  a  Sphinx's  face, 

Turned  broadly  to  the  moon  by  night 
From  some  vast  temple's  base. 

Yes,  Eve  !  your  aloe  paid  the  pains 
With   which   its  sullen   growth  you 
nurst. 

But  ah  !  my  nature  yet  remains 
As  churlish  as  at  first. 

And  yet,  and  yet  —  it  might  have  proved 
Not  all  unworth  your  heart's  approv- 
ing. 

Ah,  had  I  only  been  beloved,  — 
(Beloved  as  I  was  loving  ! ) 


IN   ENGLAND. 


213 


I  might  have  been  .  .  .  how  much,  how 
much, 

I  am  not  now,  and  shall  not  be  ! 
One  gentle  look,  one  tender  touch, 

Had  done  so  much  for  me  ! 

I  too,  perchance,  if  kindly  tended, 
Had  roused  the  napping  generation, 

With    something    novel,    strange,    and 

splendid, 
Deserving  admiration  : 

For  all  the  while  there  grew,  and  grew 
A  germ,  —  a  bud,  within  my  bosom  : 

No  flower,  fair  Eve  !  —  for,  thanks  to  you, 
It  never  came  to  blossom. 


"MEDIO  DE  FONTE   LEPORUM 
SURGIT  AMARI   ALIQUID." 

LUCRETIUS. 

WE  walked  about  at  Hampton  Court, 

Alone  in  sunny  weather, 
And    talked  —  half  earnest,    and    half 
sport, 

Linked  arm  in  arm  together. 

I  pressed  her  hand  upon  the  steps. 

Its  warmest  light  the  sky  lent. 
She  sought  the  shade  :  I  sought  her  lips  : 

We  kissed  :  and  then  were  silent. 

Clare  thought,  no  doubt,  of  many  things, 
Besides  the  kiss  I  stole  there  ;  — 

The  sun,  and  sunny  founts  in  rings, 
The  bliss  of  soul  with  soul  there, 

The  bonnet,  fresh  from  France,  she  wore, 
My  praise  of  how  she  wore  it, 

The  arms  above  the  carven  door, 
The  orange-trees  before  it ;  — 

But  I  could  only  think,  as,  mute 
1  watched  her  happy  smile  there, 

With  rising  pain,  of  this  curst  boot, 
That  pinched  me  all  the  while  there. 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  HACON. 

IT  was  Odin  that  whispered  in  Vingolf, 
"  Go  forth  to  the  heath  by  the  sea  ; 

Find  Hacon  before  the  moon  rises, 
And  bid  him  to  supper  with  me." 


They  go  forth  to  choose  from  the  Princes 
Of  Yngvon,  and  summons  from  fight 

A  man  who  must  perish  in  battle, 

And  sup  where  the  gods  sup  to-night. 

Leaning  over  her  brazen  spear,  Gondula 
Thus  bespake  her  companions,  "The 

feast 
Of   the    gods    shall,    in    Vingolf,    this 

evening, 
0  ye  Daughters  of  War,  be  increast. 

For  Odin  hath  beckoned  unto  me, 
For  Odin  hath  whispered  me  forth, 
To  bid  to  his  supper  King  Hacon 

With   the   half  of  the   hosts   of  the 
North." 

Their  horses  gleamed  white  through  the 

vapor : 
In  the  moonlight  their  corselets  did 

shine  : 

As  they  wavered  and  whispered  together, 
And  fashioned  their  solemn  design. 

Hacon  heard  them  discoursing —  "Why 
hast  thou 

Thus  disposed  of  the  battle  so  soon  ? 
0,  were  we  not  worthy  of  conquest  ? 

Lo  !  we  die  by  the  rise  of  the  moon." 

"  It  is  not  the  moon  that  is  rising, 
But  the  glory  which  penetrates  death, 

When  heroes  to  Odin  are  summoned  : 
Rise,  Hacon,  and  stand  on  the  heath  ! 

"  It  is  we,"  she  replied,  "  that  have  given 
To  thy  pasture  the  flower  of  the  fight, 

It  is  we,  it  is  we  that  have  scattered 
Thine  enemies  yonder  in  flight. 

"  Come  now,  let  us  push  on  our  horses 
Over  yonder  green  worlds  in  the  east, 

Where  the  great  gods  are  gathered  to- 

getter, 
And  the  tables  are  piled  for  the  feast. 

"  Betimes  to  give  notice  to  Odin, 
Who  waits  in  his  sovran  abodes, 

That  the  King  to  his  palace  is  coming 
This  evening  to  visit  the  gods." 

Odin  rose  when  he  heard  it,  and  with  him 
Rose  the  gods,  every  god  to  his  feet. 

He  beckoned  Hermoder  and  Brago, 
They  came  to  him,    each   from    his 

seat. 


214 


THE   WANDERER. 


"  Go  forth,  O  my  sons,  to  King  Haeon, 
And  meet  liim  and  greet  him  from  all, 

A  King  that  we  know  !>y  his  valor 
Is  coining  to-night  to  our  hall." 

Then  faintly  King  Haeon  approaches, 
Arriving  from  buttle,  and  sore 

With  the  wounds  that  yet  bleed  through 

his  armor 
Bedabbled  and  dripping  with  gore. 

His  visage  is  pallid  and  awful 

With  the  awe  and  the  pallor  of  death, 
Like  the  moon  that  at  midnight  arises 

Where  the  battle  lies  strewn  on  the 
heath. 

To  him  spake  Hermoder  and  Brago, 
"  We  meet  thee  and  greet  thee  from 
all, 

To  the  gods  thou  art  known  by  thy  valor, 
And  they  bid  thee  a  guest  to  their  hall. 

"Come  hither,  come  hither,  King  Haeon, 
And  join  those  eight  brothers  of  thine, 

Who  already,  awaiting  thy  coming, 
With  the  gods  in  Wulhala  recline. 

"And  loosen,  0  Haeon,  thy  corselet, 
For  thy  wounds  are  yet  ghastly  to  see. 

Go  pour  ale  in  the  circle  of  heroes, 
And  drink,  for  the  gods  drink  to  thee." 

But  he  answered,  the  hero,  "  I  never 
Will  part  with  the  armor  I  wear. 

Shall  a  warrior  stand  before  Odin 

Unshamed,  without  helmet  and  spear  ?" 

Black  Fenris,  the  wolf,  the  destroyer, 
Shall  arise  and  break  loose  from  his 
chain 

Before  thafr  a  hero  like  Haeon 
Shall  stand  in  the  battle  again. 


"CARPE  DIEM." 

HORACE. 
TO-MOKHOW  is  a  day  too  far 

To  trust,  whateYr  the  day  be. 
We  know,  a  little,  what  we  are, 
But  who  knows  what  he  may  be  ? 

The  oak  that  on  the  mountain  grows 

A  goodly  ship  may  be, 
Next  year :  but  it  is  as  well  (who  knows?) 

May  l>e  a  gallows-tree. 


'Tis  God  made  man,  no  doubt,  —  not 
Chance  : 

He  made  us,  great  and  small  ; 
But,  being  made,  't  is  Circumstance 

That  finishes  us  all. 

The  Author  of  this  world's  great  plan 

The  same  results  will  draw 
From  human  life,  however  man 

May  keep,  or  break,  His  law. 

The  Artist  to  his  Art  doth  look  ; 

And  Art's  great  laws  exact 
That  those  portrayed  in  Nature's  Book, 

Should  freely  move  and  act. 

The  moral  of  the  work  unchanged 

Endures  eternally, 
Howe'er  by  human  wills  arranged 

The  work's  details  may  be. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread, 

The  morrow  shall  take  heed 
Unto  itself."     The  Master  said 

No  more.     No  more  we  need. 

To-morrow  cannot  make  or  mar 
To-day,  whate'er  the  day  be  : 

Nor  can  the  men  which  now  we  are 
Foresee  the  men  we  may  be. 


THE  FOUNT  OF  TRUTH. 

IT  was  the  place  by  legends  told. 

I  read  the  tale  when  yet  a  child. 
The  castle  on  the  mountain  hold, 

The  woodland  in  the  wild. 

The  wrecks  of  unremembered  days 
Were    heaped   around.      It   was   the 

hour 
When    bold    men    fear,   and    timorous 

fays 
Grow  bold,  and  know  their  power. 

The  month  was  in  the  downward  year. 

The   breath   of  Autumn   chilled  the 

sky  : 
And  useless  leaves,  too  early  sere, 

Muttered  and  eddied  by. 


that  I  was  wending  back 
Among  the  ruins  of  my  youth, 
Along  a  wild  night-haunted  track 
To  seek  the  Fount  of  Truth, 


IX    ENGLAND. 


215 


The  Fount  of  Truth,  —  that  wondrous 
fount  ! 

Its  solemn  sound  I  seemed  to  hear 
Wind-borne  adown  the  clouded  mount, 

Desolate,  cold,  and  clear. 

By  clews  long  lost,  and  found  again 
I  know  not  how,  my  course  was  led 

Through  lands  remote  from  living  men, 
As  life  is  from  the  dead. 

Yet  up  that  wild  road,  here  and  there, 
Large,  awful  footprints  did  I  meet : 

Footprints  of  gods  perchance  they  were, 
Prints  —  not  of  human  feet. 

The  mandrake  underneath  my  foot 
Gave  forth  a  shriek  of  angry  pain. 

I  heard  the  roar  of  some  wild  brute 
Prowling  the  windy  plain. 

I  reached  the  gate.     I  blew  with  power 
A  blast  upon  the  darkness  wide. 

"Who  art  thou  ?"  from  the  gloomy  tower 
The  sullen  warder  cried. 

"A  Pilgrim  to  the  Fount  of  Truth." 
He  laughed  a  laugh  of  scornful  spleen. 

"Art  thou  not  from  the  Land  of  Youth  ? 
Report  where  thou  hast  been." 

"  The  Land  of  Youth  !  an  alien  race 
There,  in  my  old  dominions,  reign  ; 

And,   with   them,    one   in   whose   false 

face 
I  will  not  gaze  again. 

"  From  to  and  fro  the  world  I  come, 
Where  I  have  fared  as  exiles  fare, 

Mocked  by  the  memories  of  home 
And  homeless  everywhere. 

"The  snake  that  slid  through  Paradise 
Yet  on  my  pathway  slides  and  slips  : 

The  apple  plucked  in  Eden  twice 
Is  yet  upon  my  lips. 

"  I  can  report  the  world  is  still 
Where  it  hath  been  since  it  began  : 

And  Wisdom,  with  bewildered  will, 
Is  still  the  same  sick  man, 

"Whom  yet  the  self-same  visions  fool, 
The  self-same  nightmares  haunt  and 
scare. 

Folly  still  breeds  the  Public  Fool, 
Knowledge  increaseth  care : 


"  Joy  hath  his  tears,  and  Grief  her  smile  ; 

And  still  both  tears  and  smiles  deceive. 
And  in  the  Valley  of  the  Nile 

I  hear  —  and  I  believe  — 

"  The  Fiend  and  Michael,  as  of  yore, 
Yet  wage  the  ancient  war :  but  how 

This  strife  will  end  at  last,  is  more 
Than  our  new  sages  know." 

I  heard  the  gate  behind  me  close. 

It  closed  with  a  reluctant  wail. 
Roused  by  the  sound  from  her  repose 

Started  the  Porteress  pale  : 

In  pity,  or  in  scorn  .  .  .  "Forbear, 
Madman, "  she  cried,  .  .  .  "thy  search 
for  Truth. 

The  curl  is  in  thy  careless  hair. 
Return  to  Love  and  Youth. 

"What  lured  thee  here,  through  dark, 

and  doubt, 

The  many-perilled  prize  to  win  ? "  - 
"The  dearth"  ...  I  said  ...  "of  all 

without, 
The  thirst  of  all  within. 

"Age  comes  not  with  the  wrinkled  brow 
But  earlier,  with  the  ravaged  heart ; 

Full  oft  hath  fallen  the  winter  snow 
Since  Love  from  me  did  part. 

"  Long  in  dry  places,  void  of  cheer, 
Long  have  I  roamed.     These  features 
scan  : 

If  magic  lore  be  thine,  look  here, 
Behold  the  Talisman  !  " 

I  crossed  the  court.     The  bloodhound 
bayed 

Behind  me  from  the  outer  wall. 
The  drowsy  grooms  my  call  obeyed 

And  lit  the  haunted  hall. 

They  brought  me  horse,  and  lance,  and 

helm, 

They  bound  the  buckler  on  my  breast, 
Spread  the  weird  chart  of   that  wild 

realm, 
And  armed  me  for  the  quest. 

Uprose  the  Giant  of  the  Keep. 

"Rash  fool,    ride   on  !"  ...  I  heard 

him  say, 
"  The  night  is  late,  the  heights  are  steep, 

And  Truth  is  far  away  !  " 


216 


THE  WANDEBER, 


And  ..."  Far  away  ! "  .  .  .  the  echoes 

fell 

Behind,  as  from  that  grisly  hold 
I    turned.     No   tongue    of    man    may 

tell 
What  mine  must  leave  untold. 

The  Fount  of  Truth,  —  that  wondrous 
fount ! 

Far  off  I  heard  its  waters  play. 
But  ere  1  scaled  the  solemn  mount, 

Dawn  broke.     The  trivial  day 

To  its  accustomed  course  flowed  back, 
And  all  the  glamour  faded  round. 

Is  it  forever  lost,  —  that  track  ? 
Or  —  was  it  never  found  ? 


MIDGES. 

SHE  is  talking  aesthetics,  the  dear  clever 

creature  ! 
Upon   Man,   and  his  functions,    she 

speaks  with  a  smile. 
Her  ideas  are  divine   upon   Art,   upon 

Nature, 

The   Sublime,   the   Heroic,   and   Mr. 
Carlyle. 

I  no  more  am  found  worthy  to  join  in 

the  talk,  now  ; 
So   I    follow   with    my   surreptitious 

cigar  ; 
While  she  leads  our  poetical  friend  up 

the  walk,  now, 

Who  quotes  Wordsworth  and  praises 
her  "  Thoughts  on  a  Star.' 

Meanwhile,  there  is  dancing  in  yonder 

green  bower 
A  swarm   of  young  midges.      They 

dance  high  and  low. 
*T  is  a  sweet  little  species  that  lives  but 

one  hour, 

And  the  eldest  was  born  half  an  hour 
ago. 

One  impulsive  young  midge  I  hear  ar- 
dently pouring 

In  the  ears  of  a  shy  little  wanton  in 
gauze, 

His  eternal  devotion  ;  his  ceaseless  ador- 

"ing; 

Which   shall   last  till   the    Universe 
breaks  from  its  laws  : 


His  passion  is  not,  he  declares,  the  mere 

fever 
Of  a  rapturous  moment.     It  knows  no 

control : 

It  will  bum  in  his  breast  through  exist- 
ence forever, 

Immutably  fixed  in  the  deeps  of  the 
soul ! 

She   wavers :    she   flutters  :  .   .   .  male 

midges  are  fickle  : 
Dare  she  trust  him  her  future  ?  .  .  . 

she  asks  with  a  sigh  : 
He  implores,  .  .  .  and  a  tear  is  beginning 

to  trickle : 

She  is  weak  :  they  embrace,  and  .  .  . 
the  lovers  pass  by. 

While  they  pass  me,   down  here  on  a 

rose  leaf  has  lighted 
A  pale  midge,  his  feelers  all  drooping 

and  torn  : 
His  existence  is  withered  ;  its  future  is 

blighted :  , 

His  hopes  are  betrayed :  and  his  breast 
is  forlorn. 

By  the  midge  his  heart  trusted  his  heart 

is  deceived,  now 
In  the  virtue  of  midges  no  more  he 

believes : 
From  love  in  its  falsehood,  once  wildly 

believed,  now 

He  will  bury  his  desolate  life  in  the 
leaves. 

His  friends  would  console  him  .  .  .  the 

noblest  and  sagest 
Of  midges  have   held  that  a  midge 

lives  again. 
In  Eternity,  say  they,  the   strife  thou 

now  wagest 

With  sorrow  shall  cease  .  .  .  but  their 
words  are  in  vain  ! 

Can  Eternity  bring  back  the  seconds  now 

wasted 
In  hopeless  desire  ?  or  restore  to  his 

breast 
The  belief  he  has  lost,  with  the  bliss  he 

once  tasted, 

Embracing  the  midge  that  his  being 
loved  best  ? 

His  friends  would  console  him  .  .  .  lift- 

Yi-t,  is  before  him  ; 

Many  hundred  long  seconds  he  still 
has  to  live : 


IN  ENGLAND. 


217 


In  the  state  yet  a  mighty  career  spreads 

before  him  : 

Let  him  seek  in  the  great  world  of 
action  to  strive  ! 

There  is  Fame  !  there  's  Ambition  !  and, 

grander  than  either, 
There  is  Freedom  !  .  .  .  the   progress 

and  march  of  the  race  !  .  .  . 
But  to   Freedom   his   breast   beats    no 

longer,  and  neither 
Ambition  nor  action  her  loss  can  replace. 

If  the  time  had  been  spent  in  acquiring 

aesthetics 
I  have  squandered  in  learning  this 

language  of  midges, 

There  might,  for  my  friend  in  her  peri- 
patetics, 

Have  been  now  two  asses  to  help  o'er 
the  bridges. 

As  it  is,  ...  I  '11  report  her  the  whole 

conversation. 

It  would  have  been  longer  ;  but,  some- 
how or  other 
(In  the    midst  of   that    misanthrope's 

long  lamentation), 

A  midge  in  my  right  eye  became  a 
young  mother. 

Since  my  friend  is  so  clever,  I  '11  ask  her 

to  tell  me 
Why  the  least  living  thing  (a  mere 

midge  in  the  egg  !) 
Can  make  a  man's  tears  flow,  as  now  it 

befell  me  ... 

0  you  dear  clever  woman,  explain  it, 
I  beg! 


THE    LAST    TIME    THAT    I    MET 
LADY  RUTH. 

THERE  are  some  things  hard  to  under- 
stand. 

0  help  me,  my  God,  to  trust  in  thee  ! 
But  I  never  shall  forget  her  soft  white 

hand, 
And  her  eyes  when  she  looked  at  me. 

It  is  hard  to  pray  the  very  same  prayer 
Which  once  at  our  mother's  knee  we 

prayed  — 
When,    where    we    trusted    our  whole 

heart,  there 
Our  trust  hath  been  betrayed. 


I  swear  that  the  milk-white  muslin  so 

light 
On  her  virgin  breast,  where  it  lay 

demure, 

Seemed  to  be  toucht  to  a  purer  white 
By  the  touch  of  a  breast  so  pure. 

I  deemed  her  the  one  thing  undefiled 
By  the  air  we  breathe,  in  a  world  of 
sin: 

The  truest,  the  tenderest,  purest  child 
A  man  ever  trusted  in  ! 

When  she  blamed  me  (she,  with  her  fair 

child's  face  !) 
That  never  with  her  to  the  Church  I 

went 
To  partake  of  the  Gospel  of  truth  and 

grace, 
And  the  Christian  sacrament, 

And  I  said  I  would  go  for  her  own  sweet 

sake, 
Though  it  was  but  herself  I  should 

worship  there, 
How  that  happy  child's  face  strove  to 

take 
On  its  dimples  a  serious  air  ! 

I  remember  the  chair  she  would  set  for 

me, 
By  the  flowers,   when  all  the  house 

was  gone 

To  drive  in  the  Park,  and  I  and  she 
Were  left  to  be  happy  alone. 

There  she  leaned  her  head  on  my  knees, 

my  Ruth, 
With  the  primrose  loose  in  her  half- 

closed  hands : 
And  I  told  her  tales  of  my  wandering 

youth 
In  the  far  fair  foreign  lands.  — 

The  last  time  I  met  her  was  here  in 

town, 

At  a  fancy  ball  at  the  Duchess  of  D., 
On  the   stairs,  where  her  husband  was 

handing  her  down. 
—  There  we  met,  and  she  talked  to  me. 

She,  with  powder  in  hair,  and  patch  on 

chin, 

And  I,  in  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim  Priest, 
And    between    us    both,    without    ami 

within, 
A  hundred  years  at  least  1 


,218 


THE  WANDERER. 


We  talked  of  the  House,  and  the  late 

long  rains, 

And  the  crush  at  the  French  Ambas- 
sador's ball, 
And  .  .  .  well,  I  have  not  blown  out  my 

brains. 
You  see  I  can  laugh.     That  is  all. 


MATRIMONIAL  COUNSELS. 

You  are  going  to  marry  my  pretty  rela- 
tion, 
My  dove-like  young  cousin,  so  soft  in 

the  eyes, 

You  are   entering  on   life's  settled  dis- 
simulation, 

And,  if  you  'd  be  happy,  in  season  be 
wise. 

Take  my  counsel.     The  more  that,  in 

church,  you  are  tempted 
To  yawn  at  the  sermon,    the  more 

you  '11  attend. 
The  more  you  'd  from  milliner's  bills  be 

exempted, 

The  more  on  your  wife's  little  wishes 
you  '11  spend. 

You  '11  be  sure,  every  Christmas,  to  send 

to  the  rector 
A  dozen  of  wine,   and  a  hamper  or 

two. 
The  more  your  wife  plagues  you,   the 

more  you  '11  respect  her, 
She  '11  be  pleasing  your  friend,  if  she 's 
not  plaguing  you. 

For   women    of  course,  like  ourselves, 
i  need  emotion  ; 

And  happy  the  husband,  whose  failings 

afford  x 
To  the  wife  of   his  heart,   such  good 

cause  for  commotion, 
That  she  seeks   no  excitement,  save 
plaguing  her  lord. 

Above  all,  you  '11  be  careful  that  nothing 

offends,  too, 
Your  wife's  lady's  maid,  though  she 

give  herself  airs. 
With  the  friend  of  a  friend  it  is  well  to 

be  friends  too, 

And  especially  so,  when   that  friend 
livea  up  stairs. 


Under  no  provocation  you  '11  ever  avow 

yourself 
A  little  put  out,  when  you  're  kept  at 

the  door, 
And  you  never,  I  scarcely  need  say,  will 

allow  yourself 

To  call  your  wife's  mother  a  vulgar 
old  bore. 

However  she  dresses,  you  '11  never  sug- 
gest to  her 
That   her  taste,  as  to  colors,    could 

scarcely  be  worse, 
Of  the  rooms  in  your  house,  you  will 

give  up  the  best  to  her, 
And  you  never  will  ask  for  the  car- 
riage, of  course. 

If,  at  times  with  a  doubt  on  the  soul 

and  her  future, 
Revelation     and     reason,     existence 

should  trouble   you, 
You  '11  be  always  on  guard  to  keep  care- 
fully mute  your 
Ideas  on  the  subject,  and  read  Dr.  W. 

Bring  a  shawl  with  you,  home,  when  you 

come  from  the  Club,  sir, 
Or  a  ring,  lest  your  wife,  when  you 

meet  her,  should  pout ; 
And  don't  fly  in  a  rage  and  behave  like 

a  cub,  sir, 

If  you  find  that  the  fire,  like  yourself, 
has  gone  out. 

In  eleven  good  instances  out  of  a  dozen, 
'Tis  the  husband's  a  cur,  when  the 

wife  is  a  cat. 
She  is  meekness    itself,    my  soft-eyed 

little  cousin, 

But  a  wife  has  her  rights,  and  I  'd 
have  you  know  that. 

Keep  my  counsel.     Life's  struggles  are 

brief  to  be  borne,  friend. 
In  Heaven  there  's  no  marriage  nor 

giving  in  marriage. 
When   Death   comes,  think  how  truly 

your  widow  will  mourn,  friend, 
And  your  worth  not  the  best  of  your 
friends  will  disparage  1 


SEE-SAW. 

SHE  was  a  harlot,  and  I  was  a  thief  : 
But  we  loved  each  other  beyond  belief : 


IN   ENGLAND. 


219 


She   lived  in  the  garret,  and  I  in  the 

kitchen, 
And  love  was  all  that  we  both  were  rich 

in. 

When  they  sent  her  at  last  to  the  hos- 
pital, 

Both  day  and  night  my  tears  did  fall  ; 
'They  fell  so  fast  that,  to  dry  their  grief, 
I  borrowed  my  neighbor's  handkerchief. 

The  world,  which,  as  it  is  brutally  taught, 
Still  judges  the  act  in  lieu  of  the  thought, 
Found  my  hand  in  my  neighbor's  pocket, 
And  clapped  me,  at  once,  under  chain  and 
locket. 

When   they  asked  me  about  it,  I  told 

them  plain, 

Love  it  was  that  had  turned  my  brain  : 
How  should  I  heed  where  my  hand  had 

been, 
When  my  heart  was  dreaming  of  Celes- 

tine? 

Twelve  friends  were  so  struck  by  my 
woful  air, 

That  they  sent  me  abroad  for  change  of 
air  : 

And,  to  prove  me  the  kindness  of  their 
intent, 

They  sent  me  at  charge  of  the  Govern- 
ment. 

When  I  came  back  again,  —  whom,  think 

you,  I  meet 

But  Celestine,  here,  in  Regent  Street  ? 
In  a  carriage  adorned  with  a  coronet, 
And  a  dress,  all  flounces,  and  lace,  and 

jet: 

For  her  carnage  drew  up  to  the  book- 
seller's door, 

Where  they  publish  those  nice  little 
books  for  the  poor  : 

I  took  off  my  hat  :  and  my  face  she 
knew, 

And  gave  me  —  a  sermon  by  Mr.  Bellew. 

But  she  gave  me  (God  bless  her  !)  along 
with  the  book, 

Such  a  sweet  sort  of  smile,  such  a  heav- 
enly look, 

That,  as  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  never  for- 
get 

Celestine,  in  her  coach  with  the  earl's 
coronet. 


There 's  a  game  that  men  play  at  in  great 

London-town  ; 
Whereby  some  must  go  up,  sir,  and  some 

must  go  down  : 
And,  since  the  mud  sticks  to  your  coat 

if  you  fall, 
Why,  the  strongest  among  us  keep  close 

to  the  wall. 

But  some  day,  soon  or  late,  in  my  shoes 

I  shall  stand, 
More  exalted  than  any  great  Duke  in 

the  land  ; 
A  clean  shirt  on  my  back,  and  a  rose  in 

my  coat, 
And  a  collar  conferred  by  the   Queen 

round  my  throat. 

And  I  know  that  my  Celestine  will  not 

forget 
To  be  there,  in  her  coach  with  my  lord's 

coronet  : 
She  will  smile  to  me  then,  as  she  smiled 

to  me  now  : 
I  shall  nod  to  her  gayly,  and  make  her 

my  bow ;  — 

Before  I  rejoin  all  those  famous  old 
thieves 

Whose  deeds  have  immortalized  Rome, 
sir,  and  Greece  : 

Whose  names  are  inscribed  upon  His- 
tory's leaves, 

Like  my  own  on  the  books  of  the  City 
/  Police  :  — 

Alexander,  and  Caesar,  and  other  great 
robbers, 

Who  once  tried  to  pocket  the  whole  uni- 
verse : 

Not  to  speak  of  our  own  parliamentary 
jobbers, 

With  their  hands,  bless  them  all,  in  the 
popular  purse  ! 


BABYLONIA. 

ENOUGH  of  simpering  and  grimace  ! 
Enough  of   damning   one's   soul   for 

nothing  ! 

Enough  of  Vacuity  trimmed  with  lace  ! 
And  Poverty  proud  of  her  purple  cloth- 
ing ! 

In  Babylon,  whene'er  there  's  a  wind 
(Whether  it  blow  rain,  or  whether  it 
blow  sand), 


220 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  weathercocks  change  their  mighty 

miinl  ; 

And  the  weathercocks  are  forty  thou- 
sand. 
Forty  thousand  weathercocks, 

Each  well-minded  to  keep  his  place, 
Turning  about  in  the  great  and  small 

ways  ! 
Knch    knows,    whatever    the    weather's 

shock  s, 
That  the  wind  will  never  blow  in  his 

face  ; 

And  in  Babylon  the  wind  blows  al- 
ways. 

I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  strike  you, 
But  it  strikes  me  now,  for  the  first 

and  last  time, 

That  there  may  be  better  things  to  do, 
Than  watching  the  weathercocks  for 

pastime. 
And  I  wish  I  were  out  of  Babylon, 

Out  of  sight  of  column  and  steeple, 
Out  of  fashion  and  form,  for  one, 
And  out  of  the  midst  of  this  double- 
faced  people. 

Enough  of  catgut  !     Enough  of  the  sight 
Of  the  dolls  it  sets  dancing  all  the  night ! 
For  there  is  a  notion  come  to  me, 

As  here,  in  Babylon,  I  am  lying, 
That  far  away,  over  the  sea, 

And  under  another  moon  and  star, 
Braver,  more  beautiful  beings  arc  dying 
(Dying,  not  dancing,  dying,  dying  !) 
To  a  music  nobler  far. 

Full  well  I  know  that,  before  it  came 
To  inhabit  this  feeble,  faltering  frame, 
My  soul  was  weary  ;  and,  ever  since 

then, 
It  has  seemed  to  me,  in  the  stir  and 

bustle 

Of  this  eager  world  of  women  and  men, 
That  my  life  was  tired  before  it  began, 
That  even  the  child  had  fatigued  the  man, 
And  brain  and  heart  have  done  their 

part 
To  wear  out  sinew  and  muscle. 

Yet,  sometimes,  a,  wish  has  come  to  me, 
To  wander,  wander,  I  know  not  where, 
Out  of  the  sight  of  all  that  I  see, 

Out  of  the  hearing  of  all  that  I  hear  ; 
•  Where  only  the  tawny,  bold,  wild  beast 
Roams  his  realms  ;  and  find,  at  least, 
The   strength  which   even  the   beast 
finds  there, 


A  joy,  though  but  a  savage  joy  ;  — 

\\Vre  it  only  to  find  the  food  I  need, 
The  .six-lit  to  track,  and  the  force  to  de- 
stroy, 

And  the  very  appetite  to  feed  ; 
The    bliss    of   the    sense   without   the 

thought, 
And  the  freedom,  for  once  in  my  life, 

from  aught 
That  fills  my  life  with  care. 

And  never  this  thought  hath  so  wildly 

crost 
My  mind,  with  its  wildering,  strange 

temptation, 

As  just  when  I  was  enjoying  the  most 
The  blessings  of  what  is  called  Civiliza- 
tion :  — 

The  glossy  boot  which  tightens  the  foot ; 
The  club  at  which  my  friend  was  black- 
balled 
(I  am  sorry,  of  course,  but  one  must 

be  exclusive)  ; 

The  yellow  kid  glove  whose  shape  I  ap- 
prove, 
And  the  journal  in  which  I  am  kindly 

called 
"Whatever  's    not    libellous  —  only 

abusive  : 

The  ball  to  which  I  am  careful  to  go, 
Where  the  folks  are  so  cool,  and  the 

rooms  are  so  hot ; 
The   opera,    which   shows   one   what 

music  —  is  not ; 

And  the  simper  from  Lady  .  .  .  but  why 
should  you  know  ? 

Yet,  I  am  a  part  of  the  things  I  despise, 
Since  my  life  is  bound  by  their  com- 
mon span  : 
And  each  idler  I  meet,  in  square  or 

in  street, 

Hath  within  him  what  all  that 's  with- 
out him  belies,  — 

The  miraculous,  infinite  heart  of  man, 
With  its  countless  capabilities  ! 
The  sleekest  guest  at  the  general  feast, 

That  at  every  sip,  as  he  sups,  says  grace, 

Hath  in  him  a  touch  of  the  untamed  beast; 

And  change  of  nature  is  change  of  place. 

The  judge  on  the  bench,  and  the  scamp 

at  the  dock, 
Have,  in  each  of  them,  much  that  is 

common  to  both  ; 
Each  is  part  of  the  parent  stock, 
And  their  difference  comes  of  their 
different  cloth. 


IN   ENGLAND. 


221 


Twixt  the  Seven  Dials  and  Exeter  Hall 

The  gulf  that  is  fixed  is  not  so  wide  : 

And  the  fool  that,   last  year,  at  Her 

Majesty's  Ball, 
Sickened  me  so  with  his   simper  of 

pride, 
Is  the  hero  now  heard  of,  the  first  on  the 

wall, 
,•    With  the  bayonet-wound  in  his  side. 

0,  for  the  times  which  were  (if  any 
Time  be  heroic)  heroic  indeed  ! 
When  the  men  were  few, 
And  the  deeds  to  do 
Were  mighty,  and  many, 

And  eacli  man  in  his  hand  held  a 

noble  deed. 

Now  the  deeds  are  few, 
And  the  men  are  many, 

And  each  man  has,  at  most,  but  a 
noble  need. 

Blind  fool !  .  .  .  I  know  that  all  acted 

time 
By  that  which  succeeds  it,  is  ever  re- . 

ceived 

As  calmer,  completer,  and  more  sublime, 
Only  because  it  is  finished  :  because 
We  only  behold  the  thing  it  achieved  ; 
We  behold  not  the  thing  that  it  was. 
For,  while  it  stands  whole  and  immuta- 
ble, 
In  the  marble  of  memory  —  we,  who 

have  seen 
But  the  statue  before  us,  —  how  can  we 

tell 
What  the  men  that  have  hewn  at  the 

block  may  have  been  ? 
Their  passion  is  merged  in  its  passionless- 
ness  ; 

Their  strife  in  its  stillness  closed  for- 
ever : 
Their  change  upon  change  in  its  change- 

lessness ; 
In  its  final  achievement,  their  feverish 

endeavor : 
Who  knows  how  sculptor  on  sculptor 

starved 
With  the  thought  in  the  head  by  the 

hand  uncarved  ? 

And  he  that  spread  out  in  its  ample  re- 
pose 

That  grand,  indifferent,  godlike  brow, 
How  vainly  his  own  may  have  ached, 

who  knows, 

'Twixt  the  laurel  above  and  the  wrin- 
kle below  ? 


So  again  to  Babylon  I  come  back, 
Where  this  fettered  giant  of  Human 

Nature 
Cramped  in  limb,  and  constrained  in 

stature, 
In  the  torture-chamber  of  Vanity 

lies  ; 
Helpless  and  weak,   and   compelled  to 

speak 

The  things  he  must  despise. 
You  stars,  so  still  in  the  midnight  blue, 
Which  over  these  huddling  roofs  I  view, 
Out  of  reach  of  this  Babylonian  riot,  — • 
We  so  restless,  and  you  so  quiet, 
What  is  difference  'twixt  us  and  you  ? 

You  each  may  have  pined  with  a  pain 
divine, 

For  aught  I  know, 
As  wildly  as  this  weak  heart  of  mine, 

In  an  Age  ago  : 
For  whence  should  you  have  that  stern 

repose, 
Which,  here,  dwells  but  on  the  brows 

of  those 
Who  have  lived,  and  survived  life's 

fever, 

Had  you  never  known  the  ravage  and  fire 
Of  that  inexpressible  Desire, 
Which  wastes  and  calcines  whatever  is 

less 

In  the  soul,  than  the  soul's  deep  con- 
sciousness 
Of  a  life  that  shall  last  forever  ? 

Doubtless,  doubtless,  again  and  again, 
Many  a  mouth  has  starved  for  bread 
In  a  city  whose  wharves  are  choked 

with  corn 
And  many  a  heart  hath  perished  dead 

From  being  too  utterly  forlorn, 
In  a  city  whose  streets  are  choked  with 

men. 
Yet  the  bread  is  there,  could  one  find  it 

out  : 
And  there  is  a  heart  for  a  heart,  no  doubt, 

Wherever  a  human  heart  may  beat ; 
And  room  for  courage,  and  truth,  and 

love, 

To  move,  wherever  a  man  may  move, 
In  the  thickliest  crowded  street. 

0  Lord  of  the  soul  of  man,  whose  will 
Made   earth  for  man,    and   man  for 
heaven, 

Help  all  thy  creatures  to  fulfil 
The  hopes  to  each  one  given  ! 


222 


THE   WANDERER. 


So  fair  thou  madest,  and  so  complete, 
The  little  daisies  at  our  feet ; 
So  sound,  and  so  robust  in  heart, 
The  patient  beasts,  that  bear  their  part 
In  this  world's  labor,  never  asking 
The  reason  of  its  ceaseless  tasking  ; 
Hast  thou  made  man,  though  more  in 

kind, 

By  reason  of  his  soul  and  mind, 
Yet  less  in  unison  with  life, 
By  reason  of  an  inward  strife, 
Than  these,  thy  simpler  creatures,  are, 
Submitted  to  his  use  and  care  ? 

For  these,  indeed,  appear  to  live 

To  the  full  verge  of  their  own  power, 
Nor  ever  need  that  time  should  give 

To  life  one  space  beyond  the  hour. 
They  do  not  pine  for  what  is  not ; 

Nor  quarrel  with  the  things  which  are  ; 
Their  yesterdays  are  all  forgot ; 

Their  morrows  are  not  feared  from  far  : 
They  do  not  weep,  and  wail,  and  moan, 

For  what  is  past,  or  what 's  to  be, 

Or  what 's  not  yet,  and  may  be  never ; 
They  do  not  their  own  lives  disown, 


Nor  haggle  with  eternity 
For  some  unknown  Forever. 

Ah  yet,  —  in  this  must  I  believe 
That  man  is  nobler  than  the  rest :  — 
That,  looking  in  on  his  own  breast, 
He  measures  thus  his  strength  and  size 
With  supernatural  destinies, 

Whose  shades  o'er  all  his  lx>ine 

fall; 

And,  in  that  dread  comparison 
'Twixt  what  is  deemed  and  what  is 

done, 
He  can,  at  intervals,  perceive 

How  weak  he  is,  and  small. 

Therefore,  he  knows  himself  a  child, 
Set  in  this  rudimental  star, 

To  learn  the  alphabet  of  Being ; 
By  straws  dismayed,  by  toys  beguiled, 
Yet  conscious  of  a  home  afar  ; 

With  all  things  here  but  ill  agreeing, 
Because  he  trusts,  in  manhood's  prime, 
To  walk  in  some  celestial  clime  ; 
Sit  in  his  Father's  house  ;  and  be 
The  inmate  of  Eternity. 


BOOK   IV. -IN   SWITZEKLASTD. 


THE  HEART  AND  NATURE. 

THE  lake  is  calm  ;  and,  calm,  the  skies 
In  yonder  silent  sunset  glow, 

Where,  o'er  the  woodland,  homeward  flies 
The  solitary  crow ; 

The  woodman  to  his  hut  is  gone  ; 

The  wood-dove  in  the  elm  is  still ; 
The  last  sheep  drinks,  and  wanders  on 

To  graze  at  will. 

Nor  aught  the  pensive  prospect  breaks, 
Save  where  my  slow  feet  stir  the  gmss, 

Or  where  the  trout  to  diamonds  breaks 
The  lake's  pale  glass. 

No  moan  the  cushat  makes,  to  heave 
A  leaflet  round  her  windless  nest ; 

The  air  is  silent  in  the  eve  ; 
The  world 's  at  rest. 

All  bright  below  ;  all  calm  above  ; 
No  sense  of  pain,  no  sign  of  wrong  ; 


Save  in  thy  heart  of  hopeless  love, 
Poor  chUd  of  Song  ! 

Why  must  the  soul  through  Nature  rove, 
At  variance  with  her  general  plan  ? 

A  stranger  to  the  Power,  whose  love 
Soothes  all  save  Man  ? 

Why  lack  the  strength  of  meaner  crea- 
tures ? 

The  wandering  sheep,  the  grazing  kine, 
Are  surer  of  their  simple  natures 

Than  I  of  mine. 

For  all  their  wants  the  poorest  land 
Affords  supply  ;  they  browse  and  breed ; 

I  scarce  divine,  and  ne'er  have  found, 
What  most  I  need. 

0  God,  that  in  this  human  heart 
Hath  made  Belief  so  hard  to  grow, 

And  set  the  doubt,  the  pang,  the  smart 
In  all  we  know  — 


'THE  LAKE  is  CALM;  AND  CALM,  THE  SKIES."  —  Page 


IN  SWITZERLAND. 


223 


Why  hast  thou,  too,  in  solemn  jest 
At  this  tormented  thinking-power, 

Inscribed,  in  flame  on  yonder  West, 
In  hues  on  every  flower, 

Through  all  the  vast  unthinking  sphere 
Of  mere  material  Force  without, 

Rebuke  so  vehement  and  severe 
To  the  least  doubt  ? 

And  robed  the  world  and  hung  the  night, 
With  silent,  stern,  and  solemn  forms  ; 

And   strown  with   sounds  of  awe   and 

might, 
The  seas  and  storms,  — 

All  lacking  power  to  impart 
To  man  the  secret  he  assails, 

But  armed  to  crush  him,  if  his  heart 
Once  doubts  or  fails  ! 

To  make  him  feel  the  same  forlorn 
Despair  the  Fiend  hath  felt  ere  now, 

In  gazing  at  the  stern  sweet  scorn 
On  Michael's  brow. 


A  QUIET  MOMENT. 

STAY  with  me,  Lady,  while  you  may  ! 

For  life 's   so  sad,  —  this  hour '«  so 

sweet ; 
Ah,  Lady,  —  life  too  long  will  stay  ; 

Too  soon  this  hour  will  fleet. 

How  fair  this  mountain's  purple  bust, 
Alone  in  high  and  glimmering  air  ! 

And  see,  .  .  .  those  village  spires,  up- 
thrust 
From  yon  dark  plain,  —  how  fair  ! 

How  sweet  yon  lone  and  lovely  scene, 
And  yonder  dropping  fiery  ball, 

And  eve's  sweet  spirit,  that  steals,  un- 
seen, 
With  darkness  over  all ! 

This  blessed  hour  is  yours,  and  eve's  ; 

And  this  is  why  it  seems  so  sweet 
To  lie,  as  husht  as  fallen  leaves 

In  autumn,  at  your  feet ; 

And  watch,  awhile  released  from  care, 
The  twilight  in  yon  quiet  skies, 

The  twilight  in  your  quiet  hair, 
The  twilight  in  your  eyes  : 


Till  in  my  soul  the  twilight  stays, 

—  Eve's  twilight,  since  the  dawn's  is 

o'er ! 
And    life's    too    well-known    worthless 

days 
Become  unknown  once  more. 

Your  face  is  no  uncommon  face  ; 

Like  it,  I  have  seen  many  a  one, 
And  may  again,  before  my  race 

Of  care  be  wholly  run. 

But  not  the  less,  those  earnest  brows, 
And  that  pure  oval  cheek  can  charm ; — 

Those  eyes  of  tender  deep  repose  ; 
That  breast,  the  heart  keeps  warm. 

Because  a  sense  of  goodness  sleeps 
In  every  sober,  soft,  brown  tress, 

That  o'er  those  brows,  uncared  for,  keep.* 
Its  shadowy  quietness  : 

Because  that  lip's  soft  silence  shows, 

Though  passion  it  hath  never  known, 
That  well,  to  kiss  one  kiss,  it  knows  — 

—  A  woman's  holiest  one  ! 

Yours  is  the  charm  of  calm  good  sense, 
Of   wholesome    views   of   earth   and 
heaven, 

Of  pity,  touched  with  reverence, 
To  all  tilings  freely  given. 

Your  face  no  sleepless  midnight  fills, 
For  all  its  serious  sweet  endeavor  ; 

It  plants  no  pang,  no  rapture  thrills, 
But  ah  !  —  it  pleases  ever  ! 

Not  yours  is  Cleopatra's  eye, 

And  Juliet's  tears  you  never  knew : 

Never  will  amorous  Antony 
Kiss  kingdoms  out  for  you  ! 

Never  for  you  will  Romeo's  love, 

From  deeps  of  moonlk  musing,  break 

To  poetry  about  the  glove 
Whose  touch  may  press  your  cheek. 

But  ah,  in  one,  —  no  Antony 

Nor  Romeo  now,  nor  like  to  these,  — 
(Whom  neither  Cleopatra's  eye, 

Nor  Juliet's  tears,  could  please) 

How  well  they  lull  the  lurking  care 
Which  else  within  the  mind  endure.-, 

That  soft  white  hand,  that  soft  dark  hair. 
And  that  soft  voice  of  yours  ! 


224 


T1IK   WANDERER. 


So,  while  you  stand,  a  fragile  form, 
With    that   close   shawl    around    you 
drawn, 

And  eve's  last  ardors  fading  warm 
Adown  the  mountain  lawn, 

T  is  sweet,  although  we  part  to-morrow, 

And  ne'er,  the  same,  shall  meet  again, 
Awhile,  from  old  habitual  sorrow 

To  cease  ;  to  cease  from  pain  ; 
; 
To  feel  that,  ages  past,  the  soul 

Hath  lived  —  and  ages  hence  will  live  ; 
And  taste,  in  hours  like  this,  the  whole 

Of  all  the  years  can  give. 

Then,  Lady,  yet  one  moment  stay, 
While  your  sweet  face  makes  all  things 
sweet, 

For  ah,  the  charm  will  pass  away 
Before  again  we  meet ! 


SOFT,  soft  be  thy  sleep  in  the  land  of 

the  West, 
Fated  maiden  ! 
Fair  lie  the  flowers,  love,  and  light,  on 

thy  breast 
Passion-laden, 
In   the   place  where  thou  art,   by  the 

storm-beaten  strand 
Of  the  moaning  Atlantic, 
While,   alone  with  my  sorrow,  I  roam 

through  thy  land, 
The  beloved,  the  romantic  ! 
And  thy   faults,   child,   sleep  where  in 

those  dark  eyes  Death  closes 
All  their  doings  and  undoings  ; 
For  who  counts  the  thorns  on  last  year's 

perisht  roses  ? 

Smile,  dead  rose,  in  thy  ruins  ! 
With   thy   beauty,    its   frailty  is  over. 

No  token 

Of  all  which  thou  wast ! 
Not  so  much  as  the  stem  whence  the 

blossom  was  broken 
Hath  been  spared  by  the  frost. 
With  thy  lips,  and  thine  eyes,  and  thy 

long  golden  tresses, 
Cold  .  .  .  and  so  young  too  ! 
All  lost,  like  the  sweetness  which  died 

with  our  kisses, 
On  the  lips  we  once  clung  to. 
Be  it  so  !  0  too  loved,  and  too  lovely,  to 
linger 


When-  Age  in  its  Imrrness 
Creeps  slowly,  and  Time  with  his  terri- 
ble lilli_r«T 
Kll'ares  all  fairn 
Thy  being  was  but  beauty,  thy  life  only 

rapture, 

And,  ere  both  were  over, 
Or  yet  one  delight  had  escaped  from  thy 

capture, 

Death  came,  —  thy  last  lover, 
And  found   thee,  ...  no  care  on  thy 

brow,  in  thy  tresses 
No  silver  —  all  gold  there  ! 
On  thy  lips,  when  he  kissed  them,  their 

last  human  kisses 
Had  scarcely  grown  cold  there. 
Thine  was  only  earth's  joy,  not  its  sor- 
row, its  sinning, 
Its  friends  that  are  foes  too. 
0,  fair  was  \\\y  life  in  its  lovely  beginning, 

And  fair  in  its  close  too  ! 
But  I  ? .  .  .  since  we  parted,  both  mourn- 
ful and  many 

Life's  changes  have  been  to  me  : 
And  of  all  the  love-garlands  Youth  wove 

me,  not  any 

Remain  that  are  green  to  me. 
0,  where  are  the  nights,  with  thy  touch 

and  thy  breath  in  them, 
Faint  with  heart-beating  ? 
The  fragrance,  the  darkness,  the  life  and 

the  death  in  them, 
—  Parting  and  meeting  ? 
All  the  world  ours  in  that  hour  !  .  .  . 

O,  the  silence, 

The  moonlight,  and,  far  in  it, 
0,  the  one  nightingale  singing  a  mile 

hence  ! 

The  oped  window  —  one  star  in  it ! 
Sole  witness  of  stolen  sweet  moments, 

unguest  of 

By  the  world  in  its  primness  ;  — 
Just  one  smile  to  adore  by  the  starlight : 

the  rest  of 

Thy  soul  in  the  dimness  ! 
If  I  glide  through  the  door  of  thy  cham- 
ber, anil  sit  there, 
The  old,  faint,  uncertain 
Fragrance,  that  followed  thee,  surely  will 

flit  there,  — 

O'er  the  chairs,  — in  the  curtain  :  — 
But  thou  ?  .  .  .  0  thou  missed,  and  thou 

mourned  one  !  O  never, 
Nevermore,  shall  we  rove 
Through  chamber,  or  garden,  or  by  the 

dark  river 
Soft  lamps  burn  above  t 


IN   HOLLAND. 


225 


0    dead,    child,    dead,   dead  —  all  the 

shrunken  romance 
Of  the  dream  life  begun  with  ! 
But  thou,  love,  canst  alter  no  more  — 

smile  or  glance  ; 
Thy  last  change  is  done  with. 
As  a  moon   that  is  sunken,    a  sunset 

that 's  o'er, 

So  thy  face  keeps  the  semblance 
Of  the  last  look  of  love,  the  last  grace 

that  it  wore, 

In  my  mourning  remembrance. 
As  a  strain  from  the  last  of  thy  songs, 

when  we  parted, 
Whose  echoes  thrill  yet, 
Through  the  long  dreamless  nights  of 

sad  years,  lonely-hearted, 
With  their  haunting  regret,  — 


Though  nerveless   the  hand  now,   and 

shattered  the  lute  too, 
Once  vocal  for  me, 
There  floats  through  life's  ruins,  when 

all's  dark  and  mute  too, 
The  music  of  thee  ! 
Beauty,   how   brief !     Life,   how  long ! 

.  .  .  well,  love 's  done  now  ! 
Down  the  path  fate  arranged  for  me 
I  tread  faster,  because  1  must  tread  it 

alone  now. 

—  This  is  all  that  is  changed  for  me. 
My  heart  must  have  broken,  ere  I  broke 

the  fetter 

Thyself  didst  undo,  love. 
—  Ah,  there 's  many  a  purer,  and  many  a 

better, 
But  more  loved, ...  0,  how  few,  love ! 


BOOK  Vt  — 


HOLLAND. 


AUTUMN. 

So  now,  then,  Summer  'sover — by  degrees. 
Hark  !  't  is  the  wind  in  yon  red  region 

frieves. 
o  says  the  world  grows  better, 
growing  old  ? 

See  !  what  poor  trumpery  on  those  pau- 
per trees, 
That  cannot  keep,  for  all  their  fine 

gold  leaves, 
Their  last  bird  from  the  cold. 

This  is  Dame  Nature,  puckered,  pinched, 

and  sour, 
Of  all  the  charms  her  poets  praised, 

bereft, 
Scowling  and  scolding  (only  hear 

her,  there  !) 
Like  that  old  spiteful  Queen,  in  her  last 

hour, 
Whom  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  sung  to 

.  .  .  nothing  left 
But  wrinkles  and  red  hair  ! 


LEAFLESS  HOURS. 

THE  pale  sun,  through  the  spectral  wood, 
Gleams  sparely,  where  I  pass  : 

My  footstep,  silent  as  my  mood, 
Falls  in  the  silent  grass. 
15 


Only  my  shadow  points  before  me, 

Where  I  am  moving  now  : 
Only  sad  memories  murmur  o'er  me 

From  every  leafless  bough  : 
And  out  of  the  nest  of  last  year's  Red- 
breast 

Is  stolen  the  very  snow. 


ON  MY  TWENTY-FOURTH  YEAR. 

THE  night 's  in  November :  the  winds 

are  at  strife: 
The  snow  's  on  the  hill,  and  the  ice  on 

the  mere  : 
The  world  to  its  winter  is  turned  :  and 

my  life 
To  its  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  swallows  are  flown  to  the  south  long 

ago: 
The  roses  are  fallen  :  the  woodland  is 

sere. 
Hope  's  flown  with  the  swallows :  Love's 

rose  will  not  grow 
In  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  snow  on  the  threshold  :  the  cold  at 

the  heart : 

But  the  fagot  to  warm,  and  the  wine- 
cup  to  cheer : 


226 


TIIK  WANDERER. 


God's  help  to  look  up  to :  and  courage 

to  start 
On  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

And  'tis  well  that  the  month  of  the 

roses  is  o'er  ! 
The  last,  which  I  plucked  for  Nersea 

to  weai-, 
She  gave  her  new  lover.     A  man  should 

do  more 
With  his  twenty-fourth  year 

Than  mourn  for  a  woman,  because  she  *s 

unkind, 

Or  pine  fora  woman,  because  she  is  fair. 
Ah,  I  loved  you,  Nenea  !    But  now  .  .  . 

never  mind, 
'T  is  my  twenty-fourth  year  ! 

What  a  thing  !  to  have  done  with  the 

follies  of  Youth, 
Ere  Age  brings  ITS  follies ! .  .  .  though 

many  a  tear 
It  should  cost,  to  see  Love  fly  away,  and 

find  Truth 
In  one's  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  Past's  golden  valleys  are  drained. 

I  must  plant 
On  the  Future's  rough  upland  new 

harvests,  I  fear. 
Ho,  the  plough  and  the  team  !  .  .  .  who 

would  perish  of  want 
In  his  twenty-fourth  year  ? 

Man's  heart  is  a  well,  which  forever  re- 
news 
The  void  at  the  bottom,  no  sounding 

comes  near  : 
And  Love  does  not  die,  though  its  object 

I  lose 
In  my  twenty-fourth  year. 

The  great  and  the  little  are  only  in  name. 
The   smoke   from  my  chimney  casts 

shadows  as  drear 

On  the  heart,  as  the  smoke  from  Vesu- 
vius in  flame  : 
And  my  twenty-fourth  year, 

From  the  joys  that  have  cheered  it,  the 

cares  that  have  troubled, 
What  is  wise  to  pursue,  what  is  well 

to  revere, 
May  judge  all  as  fully  as  though  life 

were  doubled 
To  its  forty-eighth  year  ! 


If  the  prospect  grow  dim,  't  is  becaaws  it 

grows  wide. 
Every  loss  hath  its  gain.      So,   from 

sphere  on  to  sphere, 
Man  mounts  up  the  ladder  of  Time  :  so 

I  stride 
Up  my  twenty-fourth  year  ! 

Exulting  ? ...  no  ...  sorrowing  ?  .  .  . 

no  ...  with  a  mind 
Whose   regret   chastens  hope,  whose 

faith  triumphs  o'er  fear  : 
Not  repining  :  not  confident :  no,  but 

resigned 
To  my  twenty-fourth  year. 


JACQUELINE, 

COUNTESS  OF  HOLLAND  AND  HAINAULT.* 

Is  it  the  twilight,  or  my  fading  sight, 
Makes  all  so  dim  around  me  ?    Jso,  the 

night 
Is  come  already.     See  !  through  yonder 

pane, 

Alone  in  the  gray  air,  that  star  again  — 
Which  shines  so  wan,  I  used  to  call  it 

mine 

For  its  pale  face  :  like  Countess  Jacque- 
line 
Who  reigned  in  Brabant  once .  .  .  that 's 

years  ago. 
I  called  so  much  mine,  then  :  so  much 

seemed  so  ! 
And  see,  my  own  !  —  of  all  those  things, 

my  star 
(Because  God  hung  it  there,  in  heaven, 

so  far 
Above  the  reach  and  want  of  those  hard 

men) 
Is  all  they  have  not  taken  from  me. 

Then 
I  call  it  still  My  Star.    Why  not  ?    The 

dust 
Hath  claimed  the  dust :  no  more.     And 

moth  and  rust 


*  Who  was  married  to  the  impotent  ami 
worthless  John  of  Brabant,  affianced  to  "  good 
Duke  Humphry."  of  Cli.iicester,  and  finally 
wedded  to  Frank  von  i.orselen,  a  p'litlcman  of 
Zealand,  in  eoMseqiien.-e  of  which  marriage  she 
lost  even  the  title  of  Countess.  MIC  died  nt 
the  age  of  thirty-six,  after  a  lift-  of  unparalleled 
adventure  and  misfortune.  See  any  Biographi- 
cal Dictionary,  or  any  History  of  the  Nether- 
lands. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


227 


May  rot  the  throne,  the  kingly  purple 

fray  :  — 
What  then?     You  star  saw  kingdoms 

rolled  away 

Ere  mine  was  taken  from  me.     It  sur- 
vives. 
But  think,  Beloved,  —  in  that  high  life 

of  lives, 
When  our  souls  see  the  suns  themselves 

burn  low 
Before  that  Sun  of  Righteousness,  — and 

know 
What  is,  and  was,  before  the  suns  were 

lit, — 

How  Love  is  all  in  all ...  Look,  look  at  it, 
My  star,  —  God's  star,  —  for  being  God's 

't  is  mine  : 
Had  it  been  man's  ...  no  matter  .  .  . 

see  it  shine  — 
The  old  wan  beam,  which  I  have  watched 

ere  now 
So  many  a  wretched  night,  when  this 

poor  brow 
Ached  'neath  the  sorrows  of  its  thorny 

crown. 
Its  crown  !  .  .  .  ah,  droop  not,  dear,  those 

fond  eyes  down. 

No  gem  in  all  that  shattered  coronet 
Was  half  so  precious  as  the  tear  which 

wet 
Just  now  this  pale  sick  forehead.     0  my 

own, 
My  husband,   need  was,  that  I  should 

have  known 
Much  sorrow,  — more  than  most  Queens, 

—  all  know  some,  — 
Ere,  dying,  I  could  bless  thee  for  the 

home 
Far  dearer  than  the  Palace,  —  call  thy 

tear, 
The  costliest  gem  that  ever  sparkled  here. 

Infold  me,  my  Beloved.     One  more  kiss. 
0,  I  must  go  !     'T  was  willed  I  should 

not  miss 
Life's  secret,   ere  I   left  it.      And  now 

see,  — 

My  lips  touch  thine  —  thine  arm  encir- 
cles me  — 
The  secret 's  found  —  God  beckons  —  I 

must  go. 
Earth's  best  is  given.  —  Heaven's  turn 

is  come  to  show 
How  much  its  best  earth's  best  may  yet 

exceed, 
Lest  earth's  should  seem  the  very  best 

indeed^ 


So  we  must  part  a  little  ;  but  not  long. 
I  seem  to  see  it  all.     My  lands  belong 
To   Philip  still ;  but  thine  will  be  my 

grave, 
(The  only  strip  of  land  which  I  could 

save  !) 
Not  much,   but  wide  enough  for  some 

few  flowers, 
Thou  'It  plant  there,  by  and  by,  in  later 

hours  : 
Duke  Humphry,  when  they  tell  him  I 

am  dead 
(And  so  young  too  !)  will  sigh,  and  shake 

his  head, 
And  if  his  wife  should   chide,  "Poor 

Jacqueline, " 
He  '11  add,  ' '  You  know  she  never  could 

be  mine." 
And  men  will  say,  when  some  one  speaks 

of  me, 

"Alas,  it  was  a  piteous  history, 
The  life  of  that  poor  countess  ! "     For 

the  rest 

Will  never  know,  my  love,  howl  wasblest. 
Some  few  of  my  poor  Zealanders,  per- 
chance, 
Will  keep  kind  memories  of  me  ;  and  in 

France 
Some  minstrel  sing  my  story.      Pitiless 

John 
Will  prosper  still,  no  doubt,  as  he  has 

done, 
And  still  praise  God  with  blood  upon 

the  Rood. 
Philip  will,    doubtless,    still  be  called 

"The  Good." 
And  men  will  curse  and  kill :  and  the 

old  game 
Will  weary  out  new  hands  :  the  love  of 

fame 
Will  sow  new  sins  :    thou  wilt  not  be 

renowned  : 

And  I  shall  lie  quite  quiet  under  ground. 
My  life  is  a  torn  book.  But  at  the  end 
A  little  page,  quite  fair,  is  saved,  my 

friend, 
Where  thou  didst  write  thy  name.     No 

stain  is  there, 
No  blot,  —  from  marge   to  marge,   all 

pure  —  no  tear  ;  — 
The  last  page,  saved  from  all,  and  writ 

by  thee, 
Which   I   shall  take  safe  up  to  Heaven 

.  with  me. 
All 's  not  in  vain,  since  this  be  so.     Dost 

grieve  ? 
Beloved,  I  beseech  thee  to  beliere 


228 


THE  WANDERER, 


Although  this  be  the  last  page  of  my  life, 
It  is  my  heart's  first,  only  one.     Thy 

wilt-, 
Poor  though  she  be,  0  thou  sole  wealth 

of  mine, 
Is  happier  than  the  Countess  Jacqueline  ! 

And  since  my  heart  owns  thine,  say,  — 

am  I  not 
A   Queen,   my   chosen,    though   by  all 

forgot  ? 
Though  all  forsake,  yet  is  not  this  thy 

hand  ? 

I,  a  lone  wanderer  in  a  darkened  land, 
I,  a  poor  pilgrim  with  no  stall'  of  hope, 
I,  a  late  traveller  down  the  evening  slope, 
Where  any  spark,  the  glow-worm's  by 

the  way, 
Had  been  a  light  to  bless  .  .  .  have  I, 

0  say, 

Not  found,  Beloved,  in  thy  tender  eyes, 
A  light  more  sweet  than  morning's  ?    As 

there  dies 
Some  day  of  storm  all  glorious  in  its 

even, 
My  life  grows  loveliest  as  it  fades  in 

heaven. 
This  earthly  house   breaks  up.      This 

flesh  must  fade. 
So  many  shocks  of  grief  slow  breach 

have  made 
In   the  poor  frame.     Wrongs,   insults, 

treacheries, 
Hopes  broken  down,  and  memory  which 

sighs 
In,  like  a  night-wind  !     Life  was  never 

meant 

To  bear  so  much  in  such  frail  tenement. 
Why   should  we    seek    to    patch    and 

plaster  o'er 
This    shattered    roof,    crusht  windows, 

broken  door 
The  light  already  shines  through  ?    Let 

them  break. 

Yet  Would   I  gladly  live  for  thy  dear 

sake, 
0  my  heart's  first  and  last,  if  that  could 

be  ! 
In  vain  !  .  .  .  yet  grieve  not  thou.      I 

shall  not  see 
England  again,  and  those  white  cliffs ; 

nor  ever 
Again  those  four  gray  towers  beside  the 

river, 
And  London's  roaring  bridges  :    never 

more 


Those  windows  with  the  market-stalli 

before, 
Where  the  red-kirtled  market-girls  went 

by 
In  the  great  square,  beneath  the  great 

gray  sky, 

In  Brussels  :  nor  in  Holland,  night  or  day, 
Watch  those   long  lines  of  siege,   and 

fight  at  bay 

Among  my  broken  army,  in  default 
Of  Gloucester's  failing  forces  from  Hai- 

nault : 
Nor  shall  I   pace  again  those  gardens 

green, 
With    their    clipt    alleys,    where    they 

called  me  Queen, 
In  Brabant  once.     For  all  these  things 

are  gone. 

But  thee  1  shall  behold,  my  chosen  one, 
Though  we  should  seem  whole  worlds  on 

worlds  apart, 

Because  thou  wilt  be  ever  in  my  heart. 
Nor  shall  I  leave  thee  wholly.     1  shall  be 
An  evening  thought,  — a  morning  dream 

to  thee,  — 
A  silence  in  thy  life  when,  through  the 

night, 
The  bell  strikes,  or  the  sun,  with  sinking 

light, 
Smites  all  the  empty  windows.     As  there 

sprout 

Daisies,  and  dimpling  tufts  of  violets,  out 
Among  the  grass  where  some  corpse  lies 

asleep, 

So  round  thy  life,  where  I  lie  buried  deep, 
A  thousand  little  tender  thoughts  shall 

spring, 
A  thousand  gentle  memories  wind  and 

cling. 

0,  promise  me,  my  own,  before  my  soul 
Is  houseless,  —  let  the  great  world  turn 

and  roll 
Upon   its   way  unvext  ...  Its   pomps, 

its  powers  ! 
The  dust  says   to  the  dust,  ..."  the 

earth  is  ours." 

I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  Queen  again 
For  all  the  walls  of  the  vide  world  con- 
tain. 
Be    thou    content    with   silence.     Who 

would  raise 

A  little  dust  and  noise  of  human  praise, 
If  he  could  see,  in  yonder  distance  dim, 
The  silent  eye  of  God  that  watches  him  ? 
Oh  !  couldst  thou  see  all  that  I  see  to- 
night 
Upon  the  brinks  of  the  great  Infinite  ! 


IN   HOLLAND. 


229 


"  Come  out  of  her,  my  people,  lest  ye  be 
Partakers  of  her  sins  !  "  .  .  .  My  love, 

but  we 
Our  treasure  where  no  thieves  break  in 

and  steal, 
Have  stored,  I  trust.     Earth's  weal  is 

not  our  weal. 
Let  the  world  mind  its  business  —  peace 

or  war, 
Ours  is  elsewhere.     Look,   look,  — my 

star,  my  star  ! 
It  grows,  it  glows,  it  spreads  in  light 

unfurled  ;  — 
Said  I  "  my  star  "  ?     No  star  —  a  world 

—  God's  world  ! 
What  hymns  adown  the  jasper  sea  are 

rolled, 

Even  to  these  sick  pillows  !     "Who  infold 
White  wings    about   me  ?    Rest,    rest, 

rest  ...  I  come  ! 
0  Love  !   1  think  that  I  am  near  my 

home. 

Whence  was  that  music  ?    Was  it  Heav- 
en's I  heard  ? 
Write  "  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  i' 

the  Lord, 
Because  they  rest, ".  .  .  because  their  toil 

is  o'er. 
The  voice  of  weeping  shall.be  heard  no 

more 

In  the  Eternal  city.     Neither  dying 
Nor  sickness,  pain  nor  sorrow,  neither 

crying, 
For  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears.    Rest, 

rest, 
Thy  hand,   my  husband,  —  so  —  upon 

thy  breast  ! 


MACROMICROS. 

IT  is  the  star  of  solitude, 
Alight  in  yon  lonely  sky. 

The  sea  is  silent  in  its  mood, 
Motherlike  moaning  a  lullaby, 
To  hush  the  hungering  mystery 

To  sleep  on  its  breast  subdued. 
The  night  is  alone,  and  I. 

It  is  not  the  scene  I  am  seeing, 
The  lonely  sky  and  the  sea, 

It  is  the  pathos  of  Being 
That  is  making  so  dark  in  me 

This  silent  and  solemn  hour  :  — 

The  bale  of  baffled  power, 
The  wail  of  unbaffled  desire, 


The  fire  that  must  ever  devour 
The  source  by  which  it  is  fire. 

My  spirit  expands,  expands  ! 

I  spread  out  my  soul  on  the  sea. 
I  feel  for  yet  unfound  lands, 

And  I  find  but  the  land  where  She 
Sits,  with  her  sad  white  hands, 

At  her  golden  broidery, 
In  sight  of  the  sorrowful  sands, 

In  an  antique  gallery, 
Where,  ever  beside  her,  stands 

(Moodily  mimicking  me) 
The  ghost  of  a  something  her  heart  de- 
mands 

For  a  blessing  which  cannot  be. 

And  broider,  broider  by  night  and  day 
The  brede  of  thy  blazing  broidery  ! 

Till  thy  beauty  be  wholly  woven  away 
Into  the  desolate  tapestry. 

Let  the  thread  be  scarlet,  the  gold  be 

gay» 

For  the  damp  to  dim,  and  the  moth  to 

fray : 
Weave  in  the  azure,  and  crimson,  and 

green  ! 

Till  the  slow  threads,  needling  out  and  in, 
To  take  a  fashion  and  form  begin  : 
Yet,  for  all  the  time  and  toil,  I  see 
The  work  is  vain,  and  will  not  be 
Like  what  it  was  meant  to  have  been. 

0  woman,  woman,  with  face  so  pale  ! 
Pale  woman,  weaving  away 

A  frustrate  life  at  a  lifeless  loom, 
Early  or  late,  't  is  of  little  avail 

That  thou  lightest  the  lamp  in  the 

gloom. 

Full  well,  I  see,  there  is  coming  a  day 
When  the  work  shall  forever  rest  in- 
complete. 

Fling,  fling  the  foolish  blazon  away, 
And  weave  me  a  winding-sheet ! 

It  is  not  for  thee,  in  this  dreary  hour, 
That  I  walk,  companionless  here  by 
the  shore. 

1  am  caught  in  the  eddy  and  whirl  of  a 

power 
Which  is  not  grief,  and  is  not  love, 

Though  it  loves,  and  grieves, 
Within    me,   without    me,    wherever   I 

move 
In  the  going  out  of  the  ghostly  eves, 

And  is  changing  me  more  and  more. 
I  am  not  mourning  for  thee,  although 


230 


11  IK   WANDEREK. 


I  love  thee,  and  thou  art  lost : 
Nor  yet  for  myself,  allx'it  I  know 

That  my  life  is  flawed  and  crost  : 
But  for  that  sightless,  sorrowing  Soul 

That  is  feeling,  Miml  with  immortal 
pain, 

All  round,  for  what  it  can  never  attain  ; 
That  prisoned,   pining,   and  passionate 
soul, 

So  vast,  and  yet  so  small  ; 

That  seems,  now  nothing,  now  all, 
That  moves  me  to  pity  beyond  control, 

And  repulses  pity  again. 
1  iim  mourning,  since  mourn  I  must, 

With  those  patient  Powers  that  bear, 

'  N'rath  the  unattainable  stars  up  there, 
With  the  pomp  and  pall  of  funeral, 
Subject  and  yet  august, 
The  weight  of  this  world's  dust :  — 

The  ruined  giant  under  the  rock  : 
The  stricken  spirit  below  the  ocean  : 

And  the  winged  things  wounded  of  old 

by  the  shock 
That  set  the  earth  in  motion. 

Ah  yet,  .  .  .  and  yet,  and  yet, 

I  f  She  were  here  with  me, 

If  she  were  here  by  the  sea, 
With  the  face  I  cannot  forget, 

Then  all  things  would  not  be 
So  fraught  with  my  own  regret, 

But  what  I  should  feel  and  see, 
And  seize  it  at  last,  at  last,  — 
The  secret  known  and  lost  in  the  past, 

To  unseal  the  Genii  that  sleep 

In  vials  long  hid  in  the  deep  ; 
By  forgotten,  i'ashionless  spells  held  fast, 
Where  through  streets  of  the  cities  of 
coral,  aghast, 

The  sea-nymphs  wander  and  weep. 


MYSTERY. 

THE  hour  was  one  of  mystery, 
When  we  were  sailing,  I  and  she, 

Down  the  dark,  the  silent  stream. 
The  stars  above  were  pale  with  love, 
And  a  wizard  wind  did  faintly  move, 

Like  a  whisper  through  a  dream. 

II'T  head  was  on  my  hi 

Her  loving  little  head  ! 
Her  hand  in  mine  was  prest, 

And  not  a  word  we  said  ; 


But   round   and    round    the  night  we 

wound, 
Till  we  came  at  last  to  the  Isle  of 

Fays ; 

And,  all  the  while,  from  the  magic  isle, 
Came  that  music,  that  music  of  other 
days  ! 

The  lamps  in  the  garden  gleamed. 

The  Palace  was  all  alight. 
The  sound  of  the  viols  streamed 

Through  the  windows  over  the  night. 
We  saw  the  dancers  pass 

At  the  windows,  two  by  two. 
The  dew  was  on  the  grass, 

And  the  glow-worm  in  the  dew. 

We   came    through    the    grass    to  the 

cypress-tree. 

We  stood  in  its  shadow,  I  and  she. 
"  Thy  face  is  pale,  thine  eyes  are  wild. 
What  aileth  thee,  what  aileth  thee  ? " 

"  Naught  aileth  me,"  she  murmured  mild, 
"  Only  the  moonlight  makes  me  pale  ; 
The  moonlight,  shining  through  the  veil 
Of  this  black  cypress-tree." 

"  By  yonder,  moon,  whose  light  so  soon 

Will  fade  upon  the  gloom, 
And  this  black  tree,  whose  mystery 

Is  mingled  with  the  tomb,  — 
By  Love's  brief  moon,  and  Death's  dark 

tree, 
Lovest  thou  me  ? " 

Upon  my  breast  .<he  leaned  her  head  ; 

"  By  yonder  moon  and  tree, 
I  swear  that  all  my  soul,"  she  said, 

"  Is  given  to  thee." 

"  I  know  not  what  thy  soul  may  be, 

Nor  canst  thou  make  it  mine. 
Yon  stars  may  all  be  worlds  :  for  me 

Enough  to  know  they  shine. 
Thou  art  mine  evening  star.     I  know 

At  dawn  star-distant  thou  wilt  be  : 
I  shall  not  hear  thee  murmuring  low  ; 

Thy  face  I  shall  not  see. 
I  love  thy  beauty  :  't  will  not  stay  : 
Let  it  be  all  mine  while  it  may. 

I  have  no  bliss  save  in  the  kiss 
Thou  givest  me." 

We  came  to  the  statue  carved  in  stone, 
Over  the   fountain.      W«    stood   there 
alone. 


IN    HOLLAND. 


231 


"  What  aileth  thee,  that  thou  dost  sigh  ? 

And  why  is  thy  hand  so  cold  ? " 
"  'T  is  the  fountain  that  sighs,"  .  .  .  she 

said,  "not  I  ; 

And  the  statue,  whose  hand  thou  dost 
hold." 

"  By  yonder  fount,  that  flows  forever, 
And  this  statue,  that  cannot  move,  — 

By  the   fountain  of  Time,  that  ceases 

never, 
And  the  fixedness  of  Love,  — 

By  motion  and  immutability 

Lovest  thou  me  ?  " 

"  By  the   fountain  of  Time,   with  its 

ceaseless  flow, 
And  the  image  of  Love  that  rests," 

sighed  she, 
"  I  love  thee,  I  swear,  come  joy,  come 

woe, 
For  eternity  ! " 

"  Eternity  is  a  word  so  long 

That  1  cannot  spell  it  now  : 
For  the  nightingale  is  singing  her  song 

From  yon  pomegranate  bough. 
Let  it  mean  what  it  may —  Eternity, 
If  thou  lovest  me  now  as  I  love  thee, 
As  I  love  thee  !  " 

We  came  to  the  Palace.     We  mounted 

the  stair. 

The  great  hall-doors  wide  open  were. 
And  all  the  dancers  that  danced  in  the 

hall 
Greeted  us  to  the  festival. 

There  were  ladies,  as  fair  as  fair  might  be, 
But  not  one  of  them  all  was  fair  as  she. 
There  were  knights,  that  looked  at  them 

lovingly, 
But  not  one  of  them  all  was  loving  as  I. 

Only,  each  noble  cavalier 

Had  his  throat  red-lined  from  ear  to  ear  ; 

T  was  a  collar  of  merit,  I  have  heard, 

Which  a  Queen  upon  each  had  once  con- 
ferred. 

And  each  lovely  lady  that  oped  her  lip 

Let  a  little  mouse's  tail  outslip  ; 

'Twas  the  fashion  there,  I  know  not 
why, 

But  fashions  are  changing  constantly. 

From  the  crescented  naphtha  lamps  each 
ray 

Streamed  into  a  still  enchanted  blaze  ;  — 


And  forth  from  the  deep-toned  orchestra 
That  music,  that  music  of  other  days  ! 

My  arm  enlaced  her  winsome  waist, 

And  down  the  dance  we  flew  : 
We  flew,  we  raced  :  our  lips  embraced  : 

And  our  breath  was  mingled  too. 
Round,  and  round,  to  a  magic  sound  — 

(A  wizard  waltz  to  a  wizard  air !) 
Round  and  round,  we  whirled,  we  wound, 
In  a  circle  light  and  fine  : 

My  cheek  was  fanned  by  her  fragrant 

hair, 

And  her  bosom  beat  on  mine  : 
And  all  the  while,  in  the  winding  ways, 
That  music,  that  music  of  other  days, 
With  its  melodies  divine  ! 

The  palace  clock  stands  in  the  hall, 
And  talks,  unheard,  of  the  flight  of 
time  : 

With  a  face  too  pale  for  a  festival 
It  telleth  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme. 

The  palace  clock,  with  a  silver  note, 
Is   chanting  the  death   of  the   hour 
that  dies. 

' '  What  aileth  thee  ?  for  I  see  float 
A  shade  into  thine  eyes." 

"  Naught  aileth  me,"  .  .  .  low  murmured 
she, 

"  I  am  faint  with  the  dance,  my  love, 
Give  me  thine  arm  :  the  air  is  warm  : 

Lead  me  unto  the  grove." 

We  wandered  into  the  grove.     We  found 
A  bower  by  woodbine  woven  round. 

Upon  my  breast  she  leaned  her  head  : 
I  drew  her  into  the  bower  apart. 

"  I  swear  to  thee,  my  love,"  she  said, 
"  Thou  hast  my  heart  !  " 

"  Ah,  leave  thy  little  heart  at  rest ! 

For  it  is  so  light,  I  think,  so  light, 

Some  wind  would  blow  it  away  to-night, 
If  it  were  not  safe  in  thy  breast. 
But  the  wondrous   brightness  on  thine 
hair 

Did  never  seem  more  bright : 
And  thy  beauty  never  looked  more  fair 

Than  thy  beauty  looks  to-night : 
And  this  dim  hour,  and  this  wild  bower, 

Were  made  for  our  delight : 
Here  we  will  stay,  until  the  day, 

In  yon  dark  east  grows  white," 


232 


THE  WANDERER. 


"This  may  not   be,"  .  .  .  she  answered 

me, 

"  For  I  was  lately  wed 
With  a  diamond  ring  to  an  Ogre-king, 

And  I  am  his  wife,"  .  .  .  she  said. 
"  My  husband  is  old  ;  but  his  crown  is 

of  gold  : 

And  he  hath  a  cruel  eye  : 
And   his  arm  is  long,  and  his  hand  is 

strong, 

And  his  body  is  seven  ells  high  : 

And  alas  !  I  fear,  if  he  found  us  here, 

That  we  both  should  surely  die. 

"  All  day  I  take  my  harp,  and  play 

To  him  on  a  golden  string  : 
Thorough  the  weary  livelong  day 

I  play  to  him,  and  sing  : 
I  sing  to  him  till  his  white  hair 

Begins  to  curl  and  creep  : 
And  his  wrinkles  old  slowly  unfold, 

And  his  brows  grow  smooth  as  sleep. 
But   at   night,    when   he   calls   for  Iris 

golden  cup, 
Into  his  wine  I  pour 
A  juice  which  he  drinks  duly  up, 
And  sleeps  till  the  night  is  o'er. 
For  one  moment  I  wait :  I  look  at  him 

straight, 
And  tell  him  for  once  how  much  I  de- 

.  test  him  : 

I  have  no  fear  lest  he  should  hear, 
The   drug  he  hath   drained  hath  so 

opprest  him. 
Then,  finger  on  lip,  away  I  slip, 

And  down  the  hills,  till  I  reach  the 

stream  : 

I  call  to  thee  clear,  till  the  boat  appear, 
And  we  sail  together  through  dark  and 

dream. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  this  Isle  of  Fays, 
To  wander  at  will  through  a  garden 

of  flowers, 
While  the  flowers  that  bloom,  and  the 

lamps  that  blaze, 

And  the  very  nightingales  seem  ours  ! 
And  sweeter  it  is,  in  the  winding  ways 
Of  the  waltz,  while  the  music  falls  in 

showers, 

While  the  minstrel  plays,  and  the  mo- 
ment stays, 

And  the  sweet  brief  rapture  of  love  is 
ours  ! 

"  But  the  night  is  far  spent ;  and  before 

the  first  rent 
In  yon  dark  blue  sky  overhead, 


My  husband  will  wake,  and   the   spell 

will  break, 

And  peril  is  near,"  .  .  .  she  said. 
"  For  if  he  should  wake,  and  not  find 

me, 
By  bower  and  brake,  thorough  bush  and 

tree, 

He  will  come  to  seek  me  here ; 
And  the  Palace  of  Fays,  in  one  vast  blaze, 

Will  sink  and  disappear  ; 
And   the   nightingales  will   die  in  the 

vales, 

And  all  will  be  changed  and  drear  ! 
For  the  fays  and  elves  can  take  care  of 

themselves : 
They  will  slip  on  their  slippers,  and 

go  : 
In   their  little  green   cloaks  they  will 

hide  in  the  oaks, 
And  the  forests  and  brakes,  for  their 

sweet  sakes, 

Will  cover  and  keep  them,  I  know. 
And  the  knights,  with  their  spurs,  and 

velvets  and  furs, 

Will  take  off  their  heads,  each  one, 
And  to  horse,  and  away,  as  fast  as  they 

may, 

Over  brook,  and  bramble,  and  stone  ; 
And  each  dame  of  the  house  has  a  little 

dun  mouse, 

That  will  whisper  her  when  to  be  gone ; 
But  we,  my  love,  in  this  desolate  grove, 

We  shall  be  left  alone  ; 
And  my  husband  will  find  us,  take  us 

and  bind  us : 

In  his  cave  he  will  lock  me  up, 
And  pledge  me  for  spite  in  thy  mood  by 

night 
When  he  drains  down  his  golden  cup." 

"Thy  husband,  dear,  is  a  monster,  'tis 

clear, 

But  just  now  I  will  not  tarry 
Thy  choice  to  dispute  —  how  on  earth 

such  a  brute 

Thou  hadst  ever  the  fancy  to  marry. 
For  wherefore,   meanwhile,  are  we  two 

here, 

In  a  fairy  island  under  a  spell, 
By  night,  in  a  magical  atmosphere, 

In  a  lone  enchanted  dell, 
If  we  are  to  say  and  do  no  more 
Than  is  said  and  done  by  the  dull 

daylight, 
In  that  dry  old  world,  where  both  must 

ignore, 
To-morrow,  the  dream  of  to-night." 


IN   HOLLAND. 


233 


Her  head  drooped  on  my  breast, 

Fair  foolish  little  head  ! 
Her  lips  to  mine  were  prest. 

Never  a  word  was  said. 

If  it  were  but  a  dream  of  the  night, 
A  dream  that  I  dreamed  in  sleep  — 

Why,  then,  is  my  face  so  white, 
And  this  wound  so  red  and  deep  ? 

But  whatever  it  was,  it  all  took  place 
Inalandwhere  never  your  steps  will  go, 

Though  they  wander,  wherever  they  will, 

through  space ; 

In  an  hour  you  never  will  know, 
Though  you  should  outlive  the  crow 

That  is  like  to  outlive  your  race. 

And  if  it  were  but  a  dream,  it  broke 
Too  soon,  albeit  too  late  I  woke, 
Waked  by  the  smart  of  a  sounding  stroke 

Which  has  so  confused  my  wits, 
That  I  cannot  remember,  and  never  shall, 
What  was  the  close  of  that  festival, 

Nor  how  the  Palace  was  shattered 

to  bits  : 

For  all  that,  just  now,  I  think  I  know, 
Is  what  is  the  force  of  an  Ogre's  blow, 

As  my  head,  by  starts  and  fits, 
Aches  and  throbs  ;   and,  when   I  look 

round, 

All  that  I  hear  is  the  sickening  sound 
Of  the  nurse's  watch,  and  the  doctor's 

boots, 

Instead  of  the  magical  fairy  flutes  ; 
And  all   that   I  see,  in  my  love's  lost 

place, 

Is  that  gin-drinking  hag,  with  her  nut- 
cracker face, 

By  the  hearth's  half-burned  out  wood  : 
And  the  only  stream  is  this  stream  of 

blood 

That  flows  from  me,  red  and  wide  : 
Yet  still  I  hear,  —  as  sharp  and  clear, 
In  the  horrible,  horrible  silence  outside, 
The  clock  that  standsin  the  empty  hall, 
And  talks  to  my  soul  of  the  flight  of 

time  ; 

•    With  a  face  like  a  face  at  a'  funeral, 
Telling  a  tale  too  sad  for  rhyme  : 
And  still  I  hear,  with  as  little  cheer, 

In  the  yet  more  horrible  silence  inside, 
Chanted,  perchance,  by  elves  and  fays, 
From  some  far  island,  out  of  my  gaze, 
Where  a  house  has  fallen,  and  some 

one  has  died, 

That  music,  that  music  of  other  days, 
With  its  minstrelsy  undescried  ! 


For  Time,  which  surviveth  everything, 
And  Memory  which  surviveth  Time :  — 

These  two  sit  by  my  side,  and  sing, 
A  song  too  sad  for  rhyme. 


THE  CANTICLE  OF  LOVE. 

I  ONCE  heard  an  angel,  by  night,  in  the  sky, 
Singing  softly  a  song  to  a  deep  golden 

lute  : 
The  polestar,  the  seven  little  planets, 

and  I, 

To  the  song  that  he  sung  listened  mute. 
For  the  song  that  he  sung  was  so  strange 

and  so  sweet, 
And  so  tender  the  tones  of  his  lute's 

golden  strings, 
That  the  Seraphs  of  Heaven  sat  husht 

at  his  feet, 
And  folded  their  heads  in  their  wings. 

And  the  song  that  he  sung  by  those 

Seraphs  up  there 
Is  called  ..."  Love."     But  the  words,  I 

had  heard  them  elsewhere. 

For,  when  I  was  last  in  the  nethermost 

Hell, 
On  a  rock  'mid  the  sulphurous  surges, 

I  heard 

A  pale  spirit  sing  to  a  wild  hollow  shell, 
And  his   song  was  the  same,   every 

word. 
But  so  sad  was  his  singing,  all  Hell  to 

the  sound 
Moaned,  and,  wailing,  complained  like 

a  monster  in  pain, 
While  the  fiends  hovered  near  o'er  the 

dismal  profound, 

With  their  black  wings  weighed  down 
by  the  strain. 

And  the  song  that  was  sung  by  the  Lost 

Ones  down  there 
Is  called  .  .  .   "Love."     But  the  spirit 

that  sung  was  Despair. 

When  the  moon  sets  to-night,  I  will  go 

down  to  ocean, 
Bare  my  brow  to  the  breeze,  and  my 

heart  to  its  anguish  ; 
And  sing  till  the  Siren  with  pining  emo- 
tion 

(Unroused  in  her  sea-caves)  shall  lan- 
guish, 


234 


T1IK  WANDERER. 


And  the  Sylphs  of  the  water  shall  crouch 

at  my  feet, 
With  their  white  wistful  faces  turned 

upward  to  hear, 
And  the  soft  Salamanders  shall  float,  in 

the  heat 
Of  the  ocean  volcanoes,  more  near. 

For  the  song   I  have  learned,  all  that 

listen  shall  move : 
But  there 's  one  will  not  listen,  and  that 

one  I  love. 


THE  PEDLER. 

THKRE  was  a  man,  whom  you  might  see, 
Toward  nightfall,  on  the  dusty  track, 

Faring,  footsore  and  wearily  — 
A  strong  box  on  his  back. 

A  speck  against  the  flaring  sky, 
You  saw  him  pass  the  line  of  dates, 

The  camel-drivers  loitering  by 
From  Bagdadt's  dusking  gates. 

The  merchants  from  Bassora  stared, 
And  of  his  wares  would  question  him, 

But,  without  answer,  on  he  fared 
Into  the  evening  dim. 

Nor  only  in  the  east :  but  oft 

In  northern  lands  of  ice  and  snow, 

You  might  have  seen,  past  field  and  croft, 
That  figure  faring  slow. 

His  cheek  was  worn  ;  his  back  bent  double 
Beneath  the  iron  box  he  bore  ; 

And  in    his  walk   there   seemed   such 

trouble, 
You  saw  his  feet  were  sore. 

You  wondered  if  he  ever  had 
A  settled  home,  a  wife,  a  child  : 

You  marvelled  if  a  face  so  sad 
At  any  time  had  smiled. 

The  cheery  housewife  oft  would  fling 
A  pitying  alms,  as  on  he  strode, 

Where,  round  the  hearth,  a  rosy  ring, 
Her  children's  faces  glowed  : 

In  the  dark  doorway,  oft  the  maid, 
Late-lingering  on  her  lover's  arm, 

Watched    through    the    twilight,    half 

afraM, 
That  solitary  form. 


Tin-  traveller  hailed  him  oft, .  .  .  "Good 
ni^'lit : 

The  town  is  far:  the  road  is  lone  : 
God  speed  ! "  .  .  .  already  out  of  sight, 

The  wayfarer  was  gone. 

But,  when  the  night  was  late  and  still, 
And  the  last  star  of  all  had  crept 

Into  his  place  above  the  hill, 
He  laid  him  down  and  slept. 

His  head  on  that  strong  box  he  laid  : 
And  there,  beneath  the  star-cold  skies, 

In  slumber,  I  have  heard  it  said, 
There  rose  before  his  eyes 

A  lovely  dream,  a  vision  fair, 
Of  some  far-off,  forgotten  land, 

And  of  a  girl  with  golden  hair, 
And  violets  in  her  hand. 

He  sprang  to  kiss  her  ..."  Ah  !  once 
more 

Return,  beloved,  and  bring  with  thee 
The  glory  and  delight  of  yore,  — 

Lost  evermore  to  me  ! " 

Then,  ere  she  answered,  o'er  his  back 
There  fell  a  brisk  and  sudden  stroke,  — 

So  sound  and  resolute  a  thwack 
That,  with  the  blow,  he  woke  .  .  . 

There  comes  out  of  that  iron  box 
An  ugly  hag,  an  angry  crone  ; 

Her  crutch  about  his  ears  she  knocks : 
She  leaves  him  not  alone  : 

"  Thou  lazy  vagabond  !  come,  budge, 

And  carry  me  again,"  .  .  .  she  says  : 
"Not   half  the   journey's   over   .  .  . 

trudge  ! " 
.  .  .  He  groans,  and  he  obeys. 

Oft  in  the  sea  he  sought  to  fling 
That  iron  box.     But  witches  swim  : 

And  wave  and  wind  were  sure  to  bring 
The  old  hag  back  to  him  ; 

Who  all  the  more  about  his  brains 
Belabored  him  with  such  hard  blows, 

That  the  poor  devil,  for  his  pains, 
Wished  himself  dead,  heaven  knows  ! 

Love,  is  it  thy  hand  in  mine?  .  .  .  Behold ! 

I  see  the  crutch  uplifted  high. 
Tin-  aiifrry  hag  prepares  to  scold. 

0,  yet  wt  might Good  by  \ 


IN    HOLLAND. 


235 


A  GHOST  STORY. 

I  LAY  awake  past  midnight : 
The  moon  set  o'er  the  snow  : 

The  very  cocks,  for  coldness, 
Could  neither  sleep  nor  crow. 

There  came  to  me,  near  morning, 

A  woman  pale  and  fair  : 
She  seemed  a  monarch's  daughter, 

By  the  red  gold  round  her  hair. 

The  ring  upon  her  finger 
Was  one  that  well  I  know  : 

I  knew  her  fair  face  also, 
For  I  had  loved  it  so  ! 

But  I  felt  I  saw  a  spirit, 

And  I  was  sore  afraid  ; 
For  it  is  many  and  many  a  year 

Ago,  since  she  was  dead. 

I  would  have  spoken  to  her, 
But  I  could  not  speak,  for  fear  : 

Because  it  was  a  homeless  ghost 
That  walked  beyond  its  sphere  ; 

Till  her  head  from  her  white  shoulders 

She  lifted  up  :  and  said  .  .  . 
'  Look  in  I  you  'II  find  I  'm  hollow. 
Pray  do  not  be  afraid  I " 


SMALL  PEOPLE. 

THE  warm  moon  was  up  in  the  sky, 
And  the  warm  summer  out  on  the  land. 

There  trembled  a  tear  from  her  eye  : 
There  trembled  a  tear  on  iny  hand. 

Her  sweet  face  I  could  not  see  clear, 
For  the  shade  was  so  dark  in  the  tree  : 

I  only  felt  touched  by  a  tear, 
And  I  thought  that  the  tear  was  for 


In  her  small  ear  I  whispered  a  word,  — 
With  her  sweet  lips  she  laughed  in  my 

face 
And,  as  light  through  the  leaves  as  a 

bird, 
She  flitted  away  from  the  place. 

Then  she  told  to  her  sister,  the  Snake, 
All  I  said  ;  and  her  cousin  the  Toad. 

The  Snake  slipped  away  to  the  brake, 
The  Toad  went  to  town  by  the  road. 


The  Toad  told  the  Devil's  coach-horse, 
Who  cocked  up  his  tail  at  the  news. 

The  Snake  hissed  the  secret,  of  coursi.-, 
To  the  Newt,  who  was  changing  her 
shoes. 

The  Newt  drove  away  to  the  ball, 
And  told  it  the  Scorpion  and  Asp. 

The  Spider,  who  lives  in  the  wall, 
Overheard  it,  and  told  it  the  Wasp. 

The  Wasp  told  the  Midge  and  the  Gnat : 
And  the  Gnat  told  the  Flea  and  the  Nit. 

The  Nit  dropped  an  egg  as  she  sat : 
The  Flea  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
bit. 

The  Nit  and  the  Flea  are  too  small, 
And  the  Snake  slips  from  under  my 
foot : 

I  wish  I  could  find  'mid  them  all 
A  man,  —  to  insult  and  to  shoot ! 


METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

SHE  fanned  my  life  out  with  her  soft 

little  sighs  : 
She  hushed  me  to  death  with  her  face 

so  fair  : 
I  was  drunk  with  the  light  of  her  wild 

blue  eyes, 

And  strangled  dumb  in  her  long  gold, 
hair. 

So  now  I  'm  a  blessed  and  wandering 

ghost, 
Though  I  cannot  quite  find  out  my 

way  up  to  heaven  : 
But  I  hover  about  o'er  the  long  reedy 

coast, 
In  the  wistful  light  of  a  low  red  even. 

I  have  borrowed  the  coat  of  a  little  gray 

gnat : 
There 's  a  small  sharp  song  I   have 

learned  how  to  sing : 
I  know  a  green  place  she  is  sure  to  be  at : 
I  shall  light  on  her  neck  there,  and 
sting,  and  sting. 

Tra-la-la,  tra-la-la,  life  never  pleased  me  ! 
I  fly  where  I  list  now,  and  sleep  at  my 

ease. 

Buzz,  buzz,  buzz  !  the  dead  only  are  free. 
Yonder 's  my  way  now.     Give  place,  if 
you  please. 


236 


THE  WANDERER. 


TO  THE  QUEEN   OF  SERPENTS. 

I  TRUST  that  never  more  in  this  world's 

shade 
Thine  eyes  will  be  upon  me :  never 

more 

Thy  face  come  back  to  me.     For  thou 
hast  made 

My  whole  life  sore  : 

And  I  might  curse  thee,  if  thou  earnest 

again 
To  mock  me  with  the  memory  in  thy 

face 

Of    days   I   would  had   been  not.     So 
much  pain 

Hath  made  me  base  — 

Enough  to  wreak  the  wrath  of  years  of 

wrong 
Even  on  so  frail  and  weak  a  thing  as 

thou  ! 

Fare  hence,  and  be  forgotten.  .  .  .  Sing 
thy  song, 

And  braid  thy  brow, 

And  be  beloved,  and  beautiful,  — and  be 
In  beauty  baleful  still  ...  a  Serpent 

Queen 

To  others  not  yet  curst  by  kissing  thee, 
As  I  have  been. 

But  come  not  nigh  me  till  my  end  be 

near, 

And  I  have  turned  a  dying  face  to- 
ward heaven. 
Then,    if   thou   wilt,    approach,  —  and 

have  no  fear, 
>  And  be  forgiven. 

Close,   if   thou  wilt,    mine    eyes,    and 

smooth  my  hair  : 

Fond  words  will  come  upon  my  part- 
ing breath. 

Nor,  having  desolated  life,  forbear 
Kind  offices  to  death. 


BLUEBEARD. 

I  WAS  to  wed  young  Fatima, 
As  pure  as  April's  snowdrops  are, 

In  whose  love  lay  hid  my  crooked  life, 
As  in  its  sheath  my  scimitar. 

Among  the  hot  pomegranate  boughs, 
At  sunset,  here  alone  we  sat. 


To  call  back  something  from  that  hour 
I  'd  give  away  my  Caliphat. 

She  broke  her  song  to  gaze  at  me  : 
Her  lips  she  leaned  my  lips  above  .  .  . 

"  Why  art  thou  silent  all  this  while, 
Lord  of  my  life,  and  of  my  love  ? " 

"  Silent  I  am,  young  Fatima, 

For  silent  w  my  soul  in  ine, 
And  language  will  not  help  the  want 

Of  that  which  cannot  ever  be." 

"  But  wherefore  is  thy  spirit  sad, 
My  lord,  my  love,  my  life  ? "  .  .  .  she 
said. 

"  Because  thy  face  is  wondrous  like 
The  face  of  one  I  knew,  tliat  's  dead." 

"Ah  cruel,  cruel,"  cried  Fatima, 

"  That  I  should  not  possess  the  past ! 

What  woman's  lips  first  kissed  the  lips 
Where  my  kiss  lived  and  lingered  last  ? 

"  And  she  that 's  dead  was  loved  by  thee, 
That  so  her  memory  moves  thee 
yet  ?  ... 

Thy  face  grows  cold  and  white,  as  looks 
The  moon  o'er  yonder  minaret ! " 

"  Ay,  Fatima  !  I  loved  her  well, 
With  all  of  love's  and  life's  despair, 

Or  else  I  had  not  strangled  her, 

That  night,  in  her  own  fatal  hair. " 


FATIMA. 

A  YEAR  ago  thy  cheek  was  bright, 
As  oleander  buds  that  break 

The  dark  of  yonder  dells  by  night 
Above  the  lamp-lit  lake. 

Pale  as  a  snowdrop  in  Cashmere 
Thy  face  to-night,  fair  infant,  seems. 

Ah,  wretched  child  !     What  dost  thou 

hear 
When  I  talk  in  my  dreams  ? 


GOING  BACK  AGAIN. 

I  DREAMED  that  I  walked  in  Italy 
When  the  day  was  going  down, 

By  a  water  that  flowed  quite  silently 
Through  an  old  dim-lighted  town  : 


IN   HOLLAND. 


237 


Till  I  came  to  a  Palace  fair  to  see  : 
Wide  open  the  windows  were  : 

My  love  at  a  window  sat,  and  she 
Beckoned  ine  up  the  stair. 

I  roamed  through  many  a  corridor 
And  many  a  chamber  of  state  : 

I  passed  through  many  an  open  door, 
While  the  day  was  growing  late  : 

Till  I  came  to  the  Bridal  Chamber  at  last, 
All  dim  in  the  darkening  weather. 

The  flowers  at  the  window  were  talking 

fast, 
And  whispering  all  together. 

The  place  was  so  still  that  I  could  hear 

Every  word  that  they  said  : 
They  were  whispering  under  their  breath 
with  fear, 

For  somebody  there  was  dead. 

When  I  came  to  the  little  rose-colored 
room, 

From  the  window  there  flew  a  bat. 
The  window  was  opened  upon  the  gloom  : 

My  love  at  the  window  sat : 

She  sat  with  her  guitar  on  her  knee, 
But  she  was  not  singing  a  note, 

For  some  one  had  drawn  (ah,  who  could 

it  be  ?) 
A  knife  across  her  throat. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  KING  MACBETH. 

THIS  is  the  castle  of  King  Macbeth. 
And  here  he  feasts  —  when  the  day- 
light wanes, 
And   the    moon   goes    softly   over   the 

heath  — 
His  Earls  and  Thanes. 

A  hundred  harpers  with  harps  of  gold 
Harp  thorough  the  night  high  festival : 

And  the  sound  of  the  music  they  make 

is  rolled 
From  hall  to  hall. 

They  drink  deep  healths  till  the  rafters 

rock 
In  the  Banquet  Hall ;  and  the  shout 

is  borne 
To  the  courts  outside,  where  the  crowing 

cock 
Is  waked  ere  morn. 


And  the  castle  is  all  in  a  blaze  of  light 
From  cresset,  and  torch,  and  sconce  : 
and  there 

Each  warrior  dances  all  the  night 
With  his  lady  fair. 

They  dance  and  sing  till  the  raven  is 

stirred 
On  the  wicked  elm-tree  outside  in  the 

gloorn  : 

And  the  rustle  of  silken  robes  is  heard 
From  room  to  room. 

But  there  is  one  room  in  that  castle  old, 
In  a  lonely  turret  where  no  one  goes, 

And  a  dead  man  sits  there,  stark  and  cold, 
Whom  no  one  knows. 


DEATH-IN-LIFE. 

BLEST  is  the  babe  that  dies  within  the 

womb. 
Blest  is  the  corpse  which  lies  within  tin, 

tomb. 
And  blest  that  death  for  which  this  lift 

makes  room. 

But  dreary  is  the  tomb  where  the  corpse 

lies  : 
And  wretched  is  the  womb  where  the 

child  dies : 
And  curst  that  death  which  steals  this 

life's  disguise. 


KING  LIMOS. 

THERE  once  was  a  wicked,  old,  gray 

king  — 
Long  damned,  as   I   have  reason  to 

know, 

For  he  was  buried  (and  no  bad  thing  !) 
Hundreds  of  years  ago. 

His  wicked  old  heart  had  grown  so  chilled 
That  the  leech,  to  warm  him,  did  not 
shrink 

To  give  him  each  night  a  goblet,  filled 
With  a  virgin's  blood,  to  drink. 

"A  splenetic  legend,"  .  .  .  you  say,  of 

course  ! 

Yet  there  may  be  something  in  it,  too. 
Kill,  or  be  killed  .  .  .  which  choice  were 

the  worse  ? 
I  know  not.     Solve  it  you. 


238 


THE   WANDERER. 


But  even  the  wolf  must  have  his  prey  : 
And  even  the  gallows  will  have  lierfood  : 

And  a  king,  my  frii-nd,  will  have  his  way, 
Though   that   way   may   lie   through 
blood. 

My  heart  is  hungry,  and  must  be  fed  ; 

My  life  is  empty,  and  must  be  filled  ; 
One  is  not  a  Ghoul,  to  live  on  the  dead  : 

What  then  if  fresh  blood  be  spilled  ? 

We  follow  the  way  that  nature  leads. 

What's  the  very  first  thing  that  we 

learn  ?    To  devour. 
Each  life  the  death  of  some  other  needs 

To  help  it  from  hour  to  hour. 

From  the  animalcule  that  swallows  his 
friends, 

Nothing  loath,  in  the  wave  as  it  rolls, 
To  man,  as  we  see  him,  this  law  ascends  ; 

'T  is  the  same  in  the  world  of  souls. 

The  law  of  the  one  is  still  to  absorb  : 
To  be  absorbed  is  the  other's  lot :  — 

The  lesser  orb  by  the  larger  orb, 

The  weak  by  the  strong  .  .  .  why  not  ? 

My  want 's  at  the  worst :  so  why  should 

I  spare 

(Since  just  such  a  thing  my  want  sup- 
plies) 

This  little  girl  with  the  silky  hair, 
And  the  love  in  her  two  large  eyes  ? 


THE  FUGITIVE. 

THERE  is  no  quiet  left  in  life, 
Not  any  moment  brings  me  rest : 


Fore  verm  ore,  from  shore  to  shore, 
I  bear  about  a  laden  breast. 

1  see  new  lands  :  I  meet  new  men  : 
I  learn  strange  tongues  in  novel  places. 

I  cannot  chase  one  phantom  face 

That  haunts  me,  spite  of  newer  faces. 

For  me  the  wine  is  poured  by  night, 
And  deep  enough  to  drown  much  sad- 
ness ; 

But  from  the  cup  that  face  looks  up, 
And  mirth  and  music  turn  to  madness. 

There  's  many  a  lij>  that 's  warm  for  me  : 
Many  a  heart  with  passion  bounding  : 

But  ah,  my  breast,  when  closest  prest, 
Creeps  to  a  cold  step  near  me  sounding. 

To  this  dark  penthouse  of  the  mind 
I  lure  the  bat-winged  Sleep  in  vain  ; 

For  on  his  wings  a  dream  he  brings 
That  deepens  all  the  dark  with  pain. 

I  may  write  books  which  friends  will 

praise, 

I  may  win  fame,  I  may  win  treasure  ; 
But  hope  grows  less  with  each  success, 
And  pain  grows  more  with  every  pleas- 
ure. 

The  draughts  I  drain  to  slake  my  thirst 
But  fuel  more  the  infernal  flame. 

There  tangs  a  sting  in  everything  :  — 
The  more  I  change,  the  more  the  same  ! 

A  man  that  flies  before  the  pest, 

From  wind  to  wind  my  course  is  whirled. 

This  fly  accurst  stung  lo  first, 

And  drove  her  wild  across  the  world  ! 


THE  SHORE. 

CAN  it  be  women  that  walk  in  the  sea-mist  under  the  cliffs  there  ? 

Where,  'neath  a  briny  bow,  creaming,  advances  the  lip 
Of  the  foam,  and  out  from  the  sand-choked  anchors,  on  to  the  skiffs  there, 

The  long  ropes  swing  through  the  surge,  as  it  tumbles  ;  and  glitter,  and  drip. 

All  the  place  in  a  lurid,  glimmering,  emerald  glory, 

Glares  like  a  Titan  world  come  back  under  heaven  again  : 
Yonder,  up  there,  are  the  steeps  of  the  sea-kings,  famous  in  story  ; 

But  who  are  they  on  the  beach  ?    They  are  neither  women,  nor  men. 

Who  knows,  are  they  the  land's,  or  the  water's,  living  creatures  ? 
Born  of  the  boiling  sea  ?  nurst  in  the  seething  storms  ? 


IN  HOLLAND.  239 

With  their  woman's  hair  dishevelled  over  their  stern  male  features, 
Striding,  bare  to  the  knee  ;  magnified  maritime  forms  ! 

They  may  be  the  mothers  and  wives,  they  may  be  the  sisters  and  daughters 
Of  men  on  the  dark  mid-seas,  alone  in  those  black-coiled  hulls, 

That  toil  'neath  yon  white  cloud,  whence  the  moon  will  rise  o'er  the  waters 
To-night,  with  her  face  on  fire,  if  the  wind  in  the  evening  lulls. 

But  they  may  be  merely  visions,  such  as  only  sick  men  witness 

(Sitting  as  1  sit  here,  filled  with  a  wild  regret), 
Framed  from  the  sea's  misshapen  spume  with  a  horrible  fitness 

To  the  winds  in  which  they  walk,  and  the  surges  by  which  they  are  wet :  — 

Salamanders,  sea-wolves,  witches,  warlocks  ;  marine  monsters, 

Which  the  dying  seaman  beholds,  when  the  rats -are  swimming  away, 

And  an  Indian  wind  'gins  hiss  from  an  unknown  isle,  and  alone  stirs 
The  broken  cloud  which  burns  on  the  verge  of  the  dead,  red  day, 

I  know  not.     All  in  my  mind  is  confused  ;  nor  can  I  dissever 
The  mould  of  the  visible  world  from  the  shape  of  my  thoughts  in  me. 

The  Inward  and  Outward  are  fused  :  and,  through  them,  murmur  forever 
The  sorrow  whose  sound  is  the  wind,  and  the  roar  of  the  limitless  sea- 


THE  NORTH  SEA. 

BY  the  gray  sand-hills,  o'er  the  cold  sea-shore  ;  where,  dumbly  peering, 

Pass  the  pale-sailed  ships,  scornfully,  silently  ;  wheeling  and  veering 

Swift  out  of  sight  again  ;  while  the  wind  searches  what  it  finds  never, 

O'er  the  sand-reaches,  bays,  billows,  blown  beaches,  —  homeless  forever  ! 

And,  in  a  vision  of  the  bare  heaven  seen  and  soon  lost  again, 

Over  the  rolling  foam,  out  in  the  mid-seas,  round  by  the  coast  again, 

Hovers  the  sea-gull,  poised  in  the  wind  above,  o'er  the  bleak  surges, 

In  the  green  briny  gleam,  briefly  revealed  and  gone  ; .  .  .  fleet,  as  emerges 

Out  of  the  tumult  of  some  brain  where  memory  labors,  and  fretfully 

Moans  all  the  night-long,  —  a  wild  winged  hope,  soon  fading  regretfully. 

Here  walk  the  lost  Gods  o'  dark  Scandinavia,  morning  and  even  ; 

Faint  pale  divinities,  realmless  and  sorrowful,  exiled  from  Heaven  ; 

Burthened  with  memories  of  old  theogonies  ;  each  ruined  monarchy 

Roaming  amazed  by  seas  oblivious  of  ancient  fealty. 

Never,  again  at  the  tables  of  Odin,  in  their  lost  Banquet  Hall, 

Shall  they  from  golden  cups  drink,  hearing  golden  harps,  harping  high  festival, 

Never  praise  bright-haired  Freya,  in  Vingolf,  for  her  lost  loveliness  ! 

Never,  with  JEgir,  sail  round  cool  moonlit  isles  of  green  wilderness  ! 

Here  on  the  lone  wind,  through  the  long  twilight,  when  day  is  waning, 

Many  a  hopeless  voice  near  the  night  is  heard  coldly  complaining, 

Here,  in  the  glimmering  darkness,  when  winds  are  dropped,  and  not  a  seaman 

sings 

From  cape  or  foreland,  pause,  and  pass  silently,  forms  of  discrowned  kings, 
With  sweeping,  floating  folds  of  dim  garments  ;  wandering  in  wonder 
Of  their  own  aspect ;  trooping  towards  midnight ;  feeling  for  thunder. 
Here,  in  the  afternoon  ;  while,  in  her  father's  boat,  heavily  laden, 
Mending  the  torn  nets,  sings  up  the  bleak  bay  the  Fisher- Maiden, 
I  too,  forlornly  wandering,  wandering,  see,  with  the  mind's  eye, 
Shadows  beside  me,  .  .  .  (hearing  the  wave  moan,  hearing  the  wind  sigh)  .  . . 
Shadows,  and  images  balefully  beautiful,  of  days  departed  : 


240 


THE  WANDERER. 


Sounds  of  faint  footsteps,  gleams  of  pale  foreheads,  make  me  sad-hearted  ; 

Sad  for  the  lost,  irretrievable  sweetness  of  former  hours  ; 

Sad  with  delirious,  desolate  odors,  from  faded  Mowers; 

Sad  for  the  beautiful  gold  hair,  the  exquisite,  exquisite  graces 

Of  a  divine  face,  hopelessly  unlike  all  other  faces  ! 

O'er  the  gray  sand-hills  (where  I  sit  sullenly,  full  of  black  fancies), 

Nipt  by  the  sea-wind,  drenched  by  the  sea-salt,  little  wild  pansies 

Flower,  and  freshly  tremble,  and  twinkle  ;  sweet  sisterhoods, 

Lone,  and  how  lovely,  with  their  frail  green  stems,  and  dark  purple  hoods  I 

Here,  even  here  in  the  midst  of  monotonous,  fixt  desolation, 

Nature  has  touches  of  tenderness,  beauties  of  young  variation  ; 

Where,  0  my  heart,  in  thy  ruined,  and  desolate,  desolate  places, 

Springs  there  a  floweret,  or  gleams  there  the  green  of  a  single  oasis  ? 

Hidden,  it  may  be  perchance,  and  1  know  it  not .  .  .  hidden  yet  inviolate, 

Pushes  the  germ  of  an  unconscious  rapture  in  me,  like  the  violet 

Which,  on  the  bosom  of  March,  the  snows  cover  and  keep  till  the  coming 

Of  April,  the  first  bee  shall  find,  when  he  wanders,  and  welcome  it  humming. 

Teach  me,  thou  North  where  the  winds  lie  in  ambush  ;  the  rains  and  foul  weather 

Are  stored  in  the  house  of  the  storms  ;  and  the  snow-flakes  are  garnered  together  ; 

Where  man's  stern,  dominate,  sovereign  intelligence  holds  in  allegiance 

Whatever  blue  Sirius  beholds  on  this  Earth-ball,  —  all  seas,  and  all  regions  ; 

The  iron  in  the  hill's  heart ;  the  spirit  in  the  loadstone ;  the  ice  in  the  poles  ; 

All  powers,   all  dominions  ;    ships  ;   merchandise  ;  armaments  ;   beasts  ;   human 

souls  ;  .  .  . 

Teach  me  thy  secrets  :  teach  to  refrain,  to  restrain,  to  be  still ; 
Teach  me  unspoken,  steadfast  endurance  ;  —  the  silence  of  Will ! 


A  NIGHT  IN  THE  FISHERMAN'S 
HUT. 

PART  I. 

THE  FISHERMAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

IF  the  wind  had  been  blowing  the  Devil 

this  way 
The    midnight    could    scarcely   have 

grown  more  unholy, 
Or  the   sea  have    found   secrets    more 

wicked  to  say 

To  the  toothless  old  crags  it  is  hiding 
there  wholly. 

I  love  well  the  darkness.     I  love  well 

the  sound 
Of  the  thunder-drift,  howling  this  way 

over  ocean. 
For  't  is  though  as  in  nature  my  spirit 

had  found 
A  trouble  akin  to  its  own  fierce  emotion. 

The  hoarse  night  may'howl  herself  silent 

for  me. 

When  the  silence  comes,  then  comes 
the  howling  within. 


I  am  drenched  to  my  knees  in  the  surf 

of  the  sea, 

And  wet  with  the  salt  bitter  rain  to 
the  skin. 

Let  it  thunder  and  lighten  !  this  world's 

ruined  angel 
Is  but  fooled  by  desire  like  the  frailest 

of  men  ; 

Both  seek  in  hysterics  life's  awful  evan- 
gel, 

Then  both  settle  down  to  life's  silence 
again. 

Well  I  know  the  wild  spirits  of  water 

and  air, 
When  the  lean  morrow  turns  up  its 

cynical  gray, 

Will,  baffled,  revert  with   familiar  de- 
spair 

To  their  old  listless  work,  in  their  old 
helpless  way.  . 

Yonder 's  the  light  in  the  Fisherman's 

hut: 

But  the  old  wolf  himself  is,  I  know, 
off  at  sea. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


241 


And  I  see  through  the  chinks,  though 

the  shutters  be  shut, 
By  the   firelight    that    some   one   is 
watching  for  me. 

Three  years  ago,  on  this  very  same  night, 
I  walked  in  a  ballroom  of  perfume  and 

splendor 
With  a  pearl-bedecked  lady  below  the 

lamplight :  — 

Now   I   walk   with    the  wild  wind, 
whose  breath  is  more  tender. 

Hark  !  the  horses  of  ocean  that  crouch 

at  my  feet, 
They  are  moaning  in  impotent  pain 

on  the  beach  ! 
Lo  !  the  storm-light,  that  swathes  in  its 

blue  winding-sheet 

That  lone   desert  of  sky,  where  the 
stars  are  dead,  each  ! 

Holloa,    there !    open,    you  little   wild 

girl  ! 
Hush,  ...  't  is  her  soft  little  feet  o'er 

the  floor. 

Stay  not  to  tie  up  a  single  dark  curl, 
But  quick  with  the  candle,  and  open 
the  door. 

One  kiss  ? .  .  .  there  's  twenty  !  .  .  .  but 

first,  take  my  coat  there, 
Salt  as  a  sea-sponge,  and  dripping  all 

through. 
The  old  wolf,  your  father,  is  out  in  the 

boat  there. 

Hark  to  the  thunder  !  ...  we  're  safe, 
—  I  and  you. 

Put  on  the  kettle.     And  now  for  the 

cask 
Of  that  famous  old  rum  of  your  father's, 

the  king 
Would  have   clawed  on   our    frontier. 

There,  fill  me  the  flask. 
Ah,  what  a  quick,  little,  neat-handed 
thing ! 

There 's  my  pipe.     Stuff'  it  with  black 

negro-head. 
Soon  I  shall  be  in  the  cloud-land  of 

glory. 
Faith,  't  is  better  with  you,  dear,  than 

'fore  the  mast-head, 
With  such  lights  at  the  windows  of 
night's  upper  story  ! 


Next,  over  the  round  open  hole  in  the 

shutter 
You  may  pin  up  your  shawl,  .  .  .  lest 

a  mermaid  should  peep. 
Come,   now,   the  kettle 's  beginning  to 

splutter, 
And  the  cat  recomposes  herself  into 


Poor  little  naked  feet,  .  .  .  put  them  up 

there .  .  . 
Little  white  foam-flakes  !  and  now  the 

soft  head, 
Here,  on  my  shoulder ;    while  all  the 

dark  hair 

Falls  round  us  like  sea-weed.     What 
matter  the  bed 

If  sleep  will  visit  it,  if  kisses  feel  there 

Sweet  as  they  feel  under  curtains  of  silk  ? 
So,  shut  your  eyes,  while  the  firelight 

will  steal  there 

O'er  the    black   bear-skin,   the    arm 
white  as  milk  ! 

Meanwhile  I  '11  tell  to  you  all  I  remember 
Of  the  old  legend,  the  northern  romance 
I  heard  of  in  Sweden,  that  snowy  De- 
cember 

I  passed  there,  about  the  wild  Lord 
Rosencrantz. 

Then,  when  you  're  tired,  take  the  cards 

from  the  cupboard, 
Thumbed  over  by  every  old  thief  in 

our  crew, 
And   I  '11   tell   you   your  fortune,   you 

little  Dame  Hubbard  ; 
My   own    has    been    squandered    on 
witches  like  you. 

Knave,  King,  and  Queen,  all  the  villa- 
nous  pack  of  'em, 
I   know  what  they  're  worth  in  thf 

game,  and  have  found 
Upon  all  the  trump-cards  the  small  mar\ 

at  the  back  of  'em, 

The  Devil's  nail-mark,  who  still  cheat* 
us  all  round. 


PAKT  II. 

THE  LEGEND   OF   LORD   ROSENCRANTZ. 

THE  lamps  in  the  castle  hall  burn  bright, 
And  the  music  sounds,  and  the  danccri 
dance, 


242 


THE    WANDKKKR. 


And  lovely  the  young  Queen  looks  to- 
night, 
But  pale  is  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

Lord  Rosencrantz  is  always  pale, 

.  But   never    more    deadly   pale    than 

now  .  .  . 
0,   there    is    a  whisper,  —  an    ancient 

tale, — 
A  rumor,  .  .  .  but  who  should  know  ? 

He   has  stepped  to  the  dais.     He  has 

taken  her  hand. 
And  she  gives  it  him  with  a  tender 

glance. 
And  the  hautboys  sound,  and  the  dancers 

stand, 
And  envy  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

That  jewelled  hand  to  his  lips  he  prest  ; 
And  lightly  he  leads  her  towards  the 

dance : 
And  the  blush  on  the  young  Queen's 

cheek  confest 
Her  love  for  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

The   moon    at  the    mullioned  window 

shone ; 

There  a  face  and  a  hand  in  the  moon- 
light glance  ; 
But  that  face  and  that  hand  were  seen 

of  none, 
Save  only  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land 

There 's  a  dead  black  pool,  where  a 
man  by  chance 

.  .  .  Again,  again,  that  beckoning  hand  ! 
And  it  beckons  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

While  the  young  Queen  turned  to  whis- 
per him, 
Lord  Rosencrantz  from  the  hall  was 

gone  ; 
And  the  hautboys  ceased,  and  the  lamps 

grew  dim, 
And  the  castle  clock  struck  One  ! 


It  is  a  bleak  December  night, 
And  the  snow  on  the  highway  gleams 

by  fits  : 
But  the  fire  on  the  cottage-hearth  burns 

bright, 
Where  the  little  maiden  sits. 


Her  spinning-wheel  she  has  luM  ;i.-iMr  ; 
And  her  blue  eyes  soft  in  the  lin-light 

glance  ; 
As  she  leans  with  love,  and  she  leans 

with  pride, 
On  the  breast  of  Lord  Rosencrantz. 

Mother 's  asleep,  up  stairs  in  bed  : 
And  the  black  cat,  she  looks  wondrous 
wise 

As  she  licks  her  paws  in  the  firelight  red, 
And  glares  with  her  two  green  eyes  : 

And  the  little  maiden  is  half  afraid, 
And  closely  she  clings  to  Lord  Rosen- 
crantz ; 
For  she  has  been  reading,  that  little 

maid, 
All  day,  in  an  old  romance, 

A  legend  wild  of  a  wicked  pool 
A  league  aloof  in  the  forest-land, 

And  a  crime  done  there,  and  a  sinful 

soul, 
And  an  awful  face  and  hand. 

"  Our  little  cottage  is  bleak  and  drear," 
Says  the  little  maid  to  Lord  Rosen- 
crantz ; 
"And  this  is  the  loneliest  time  of  the 

year, 
And  oft,  when  the  wind,  by  chance, 

"The  ivy  beats  on  the  window-pane, 
I  wake  to  the  sound'  in  the  gusty 
nights ; 

And  often,  outside,  in  the  drift  and  rain, 
There  seem  to  pass  strange  sights. 

"And  0,  it  is  dreary  here  alone  ! 
When  mother's  asleep,    in  bed,  up 

stairs, 
And  the  black  cat,  there,  to  the  forest 

is  gone, 
—  Look  at  her,  how  she  glares  ! " 

"Thou  little  maiden,  my  heart's  own 

bliss, 
Have  thou  no  fear,  for  I  love  thee 

well ; 

And  sweetest  it  is  upon  nights  like  this, 
When  the  wind,  like  the  blast  of  hell, 

"Roars  up  and  down  in  the  chimneys 

old, 

And  the  wolf  howls  over  the  distant 
•now, 


IN   HOLLAND. 


243 


To  kiss  away  both  the  night  and  the 

cold 
With  such  kisses  as  we  kiss  now." 

"  Ah  !  more  than  life  I  love  thee,  dear  !  " 
Says  the  little  maiden  with  eyes  so 

blue  ; 
"  And,  when  thou  art  near,  I  have  no 

fear, 
Whatever  the  night  may  do. 

"But  0,   it  is  dreary  when  thou  art 

away  ! 

And  in  bed  all  night  I  pray  for  thee  : 
Now  tell  me,  thou  dearest  heart,   and 

say, 
Dost  thou  ever  pray  for  me  ?" 

' '  Thou   little   maiden,    I    thank    thee 

much, 
Arid  well  I  would  thou  shouldst  pray 

for  me  ; 

But  I  am  a  sinful  man,  and  such 
As  ill  should  pray  for  thee." 

Hist  !  ...  was  it  a  face  at  the  window 
past  ? 

Or  was  it  the  ivy  leaf,  by  chance, 
Tapping  the  pane  in  the  fitful  blast, 

That  startled  Lord  Rosencrantz  ? 

The  little  maid,  she  has  seen  it  plain, 
For  she  shrieked,  and  down  she  fell 
in  a  swoon  : 

Mutely  it  came,  and  went  again, 
In  the  light  of  the  winter  moon. 


The  young  Queen,  —  0,   but  her  face 

was  sweet  !  — 
She  died  on  the  night  that  she  was 

wed  : 

And  they  laid  her  out  in  her  winding- 
sheet, 
Stark  on  her  marriage-bed. 

The  little  maiden,  she  went  mad  ; 

But  her  soft  blue  eyes  still  smiled  the 

same, 
With  ever  that  wistful  smile  they  had  : 

Her  mother,  she  died  of  shame. 

The  black  cat  lived  from  house  to  house, 
And  every  night  to  the  forest  hied  ; 

And  she  killed  many  a  rat  and  mouse 
Before  the  day  she  died. 


And   do  you  wish  that   I   should  de- 
clare 

What  was  the  end  of    Lord  Rosen- 
crantz ? 
Ah  !  look  in  my  heart,  you  will  find  it 

there, 
—  The  end  of  the  old  romance  ! 


PART  HI. 

DAYBREAK. 

YES,    you  have  guessed  it.     The  wild 

Rosencrantz, 
It  is  I,  dear,  the  wicked  one  ;  who  but 

I,  maiden  ? 

My  life  is  a  tattered  and  worn-out  ro- 
mance, 

And  my  heart  with  the  curse  of  the 
Past  hath  been  laden : 

For  still,  where  I  wander  or  linger,  for- 
ever 

Comes  a  skeleton  hand  that  is  beckon- 
ing for  me  ; 
And  still,  dogging  my  footsteps,   life's 

long  Never-never 

Pursues  me,    wherever  my  footsteps 
may  be  : 

The  star  of  my  course  hath  been  long 

ago  set,  dear  ; 
And  the  wind  is  my  pilot,  wherever 

he  blows  : 
He  cannot  blow  from  me  what  I  would 

forget,  dear, 

Nor  blow  to  me  that  which  I  seek  for, 
—  repose. 

What  !    if  I   were  the   Devil  himself, 

would  you  cling  to  me, 
Bear  my  ill   humors,   and  share  my 

wild  nights  ? 
Crouch  by  me,  fear  me  not,  stay  by  me, 

sing  to  me, 

While  the  dark  haunts  us  with  sounds 
and  with  sights  ? 

Follow  me  far  away,  pine  not,  but  smile 

to  me, 
Never  ask  questions,  and   always  be 

gay ? 

Still  the  dear  eyes  meekly  turned  all  the 

while  to  me, 

Watchful  the  night  through,  and  pa- 
tient the  day  ? 


244 


THE  WANDERER. 


What  !   if  this  hand,  that  now  strays 

through  your  tresses, 
Three  years  ago  had  been  dabbled  in 

gore  ? 
What  !  if  this  lip,   that  your  lip  now 

can 

A  corpse  hud  been  pressing  but  three 
years  before  ? 

Well  then,    behold  !  .  .  .  't  is  the  gray 

light  of  morning 
That  breaks  o'er  the  desolate  waters 

.  .  .  and  hark  ! 
"T  is  the  first  signal  shot  from  my  boat 

gives  me  warning  : 

The  dark  moves  away  :  and  I  follow 
the  lark. 

On  with  your  hat  and  your  cloak  !  you 

are  mine,  child, 
Mine  and  the  fiend'-s  that  pursues  me, 

henceforth  ! 
We  must  be  far,  ere  day  breaks,  o'er  the 

brine,  child : 
It  may  be  south  I  go,  it  may  be  north. 

What  !    really   fetching   your  hat  and 

your  cloak,  dear  ? 
Sweet  little  fool.     Kiss  me  quick  now, 

and  laugh  ! 
All  I  have  said  to  you  was  but  a  joke, 

dear  : 
Half  was  in  folly,  in  wantonness  half. 


PART  IV. 
BREAKFAST. 

AY,  maiden  :  the  whole  of  my  story  to 

you 

Was  but  a  deception,  a  silly  romance  : 
From  the  first  to  the  last  word,  no  word 

of  it  true  ; 

And  my  name 's  Owen  Meredith,  not 
Rosencrantz. 

I  never  was  loved  by  a  Qneen,  I  declare  : 
And  no  little  maiden  for  me  has  gone 

mad  : 

I  never  committed  a  murder,  I  swear  ; 
And   1    probably  should    have   been 
hanged  if  I  had. 

I  never  have  sold  to  the  Devil  my  soul ; 

And  but  small  is  the  price  he  would 

give  me,  I  know  : 


I  live  much  as  other  folks  live,  on  the 

whole  : 

And  the  worst  thing  in  me 's  my  di- 
gestion .  .  .  heigh  ho  ! 

Let  us  leave    to    the    night-wind  the 

thoughts  which  he  brings, 
And  leave  to  the  darkness  the  powers 

of  the  dark  ; 
For  my  hopes  o'er  the  sea  lightly  flit, 

like  the  wings 

Of  the  curlews  that  hover  and  poise 
round  my  bark. 

Leave  the  wind  and  the  water  to  mutter 

together 
Their  weird  metaphysical  grief,  as  of 

old, 
For  day's  business  begins,  and  the/lerk 

of  the  weather 

To  the  powers  of  the  air  doth  his  pur- 
pose unfold. 

Be  you  sure  those  dread  Titans,  what- 
ever they  be, 
That  sport  with  this  ball  in  the  great 

courts  of  Time, 
To  play  practical  jokes  upon  you,  dear, 

and  me, 

Will  never  desist  from  a  sport  so  sub- 
lime. 

The  old  Oligarchy  of  Greece,  now  abol- 
ished, 

Were  idle  aristocrats  fond  of  the  arts, 
But  though  thus  refined,  all  their  tastes 

were  so  polished, 

They  were  turbulent,  dissolute  gods, 
without  hearts. 

They  neglected  their  business,  they  gave 

themselves  airs, 
Read  the  poets  in  Greek,  sipped  their 

wine,  took  their  rest, 
Never   troubling  their  beautiful   heads 

with  affairs, 

And  as  for  their  morals,  the  least  said, 
the  best. 

The  scandal  grew  greater  and  greater  : 

and  then 
An  appeal  to  the  people  was  formally 

made. 

The  old  gods  were  displaced  by  the  suf- 
frage of  men, 

And  a  popular  government  formed  in 
their  sri-rvl. 


IN  HOLLAND. 


245 


But  these  are  high  matters  of  state,  —  I 

and  you 
May  be  thankful,  meanwhile,  we  have 

something  to  eat, 
And  nothing,  just  now,  more  important 

to  do, 

Than  to  sit  down  at  once,   and  say 
grace  before  meat. 

You  may  boil  me  some  coffee,  an  egg,  if 

it 's  handy, 
The  sea 's  rolling  mountains  just  now. 

I  shall  wait 
For  King  Neptune's  mollissima  tempora 

fandi, 

Who  will  presently  lift  up  his  curly 
white  pate, 

Bid  Eurus  and  Notus  to  mind  their  own 

business, 
And  make  me  a  speech  in  Hexameters 

slow  ; 

While  1,  by  the  honor  elated  to  dizziness, 
Shall    yield    him  my  offerings,    and 
make  him  my  bow. 


A  DREAM. 

I  HAD  a  quiet  dream  last  night : 
For  I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead  ; 

Wrapped   around  in   my  grave-clothes 

white, 
With  my  gravestone  at  my  head. 

I  lay  in  a  land  I  have  not  seen, 

In  a  place  I  do  not  know, 
And  the  grass  was  deathly,  deathly  green 

Which  over  my  grave  did  grow. 

The  place  was  as  still  as  still  could  be, 
With  a  few  stars  in  the  sky, 

And  an  ocean  whose  waves  I  could  not 

see, 
Though  I  heard  them  moan  hard  by. 

There  was  a  bird  in  a  branch  of  yew, 

Building  a  little  nest. 
The  stars  looked  far  and  very  few, 

And  I  lay  all  at  rest. 

There  came  a  footstep  through  the  grass, 
And  a  feeling  through  the  mould : 

And  a  woman  pale  did  over  me  pass, 
With  hair  like  snakes  of  gold. 


She  read  my  name  upon  my  grave  : 
She  read  my  name  with  a  smile. 

A  wild  moan  came   from  a  wandering 

wave, 
But  the  stars  smiled  all  the  while. 

The  stars  smiled  soft.     That  woman  pale 

Over  my  grave  did  move, 
Singing  all  to  herself  a  tale 

Of  one  that  died  for  love. 

There  came  a  sparrow-hawk  to  the  tree, 

The  little  bird  to  slay  : 
There  came  a  ship  from  over  the  sea, 

To  take  that  woman  away. 

The  little  bird  I  wished  to  save, 

To  finish  his  nest  so  sweet : 
But  so  deep  I  lay  within  my  grave 

That  I  could  not  move  my  feet. 

That  woman  pale  I  wished  to  keep 

To  finish  the  tale  I  heard  : 
But  within  my  grave  I  lay  so  deep 

That  I  could  not  speak  a  word. 


KING  SOLOMON. 

KING  Solomon  stood,  in  his  crown  of 

gold, 

Between  the  pillars,  before  the  altar 
In  the  House  of  the  Lord.     And  the 

King  was  old, 

And  his  strength  began  to  falter, 
So  that  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff, 
Sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  Pentegraph. 

All  of  the  golden  fretted  work, 

Without  and  within  so  rich  and  rare, 

As  high  as  the  nest  of  the  building  stork, 
Those  pillars  of  cedar  were  :  — 

Wrought  up  to  the  brazen  chapiters 

Of  the  Sidonian  artificers. 

And  the  King  stood  still  as  a  carven 

king, 

The  carven  cedarn  beams  below, 
In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet-ring, 

And  his  beard  as  white  as  snow, 
And  his  face  to  the  Oracle,  where  the 

hymn 
Dies  under  the  wing  of  the  cherubim. 

The  wings  fold  over  the  Oracle, 
And  cover  the  heart  and  eyes  of  God  : 


246 


THE  WANDERER. 


The  Spouse  with  pomegranate,  lily,  and 

bell, 

Is  glorious  in  her  abode  ; 
For  with  gold  of  Ophir,  and  scent  of 

myrrh, 
And  purple  of  Tyi^  the  King  clothed 

her. 

Bfy  the  soul  of  each  slum  brows  instrument 
Drawn  soft  through  the  musical  misty 

air, 
The  stream  of  the  folk  that  came  and 

went, 

For  worship,  and  praise,  and  prayer. 
Flowed  to  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 
And    round    the    King   in   his   golden 
crown. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  as  the  King  stood 

there, 

And  looked  on  the  house  he  had  buiJi, 
with  pride, 

That  the  Hand  of  the  Lord  came  una- 
ware, 
And  touched  him  ;  so  that  he  died, 

In  his  purple  robe,  with  his  signet-ring 

And   the   crown    wherewith    they  ha<7  j 
crowned  him  king. 

And  the  stream  of  the  folk  that  came 

and  went 
To  worship  the  Lord  with  prayer  and 

praise, 
"Went  softly  ever,  in  wonderment, 

For  the  King  stood  there  always  ; 
And  it  was  solemn  and  strange  to  behold 
That  dead  king  crowned  with  a  crown  of 
gold. 

For  he  leaned  on  his  ebony  staff  upright ; 
And  over  his  shoulders  the   purple 

robe  ; 
And  his  hair  and  his  beard  were  both 

snow-white 

And  the  fear  of  him  filled  the  globe  ; 
So  that  none  dared  touch  him,  though 

he  was  dead, 
He  looked  so  royal  about  the  head. 

And  the  moons  were  changed  :  and  the 

years  rolled  on  : 
And  the  new  king  reigned  in  the  old 

king's  stead  : 

And  men  were  married  and  buried  anon  ; 
But  the  King  stood,  stark  and  dead  ; 
Leaning  upright  on  his  ebony  staff ; 
Preserved  by  the  sign  of  the  Pentegraph. 


And  the  stream  of  life,  as  it  went  and 

came, 

Ever  for  worship  and  pniisc  and  prayer, 
Was  awed  by  the  face,  and  the  fear,  and 

the  fame 

Of  the  dead  king  standing  there  ; 
For  his  hair  was  so  white,  and  his  eyes 

so  cold, 
That  they  left  him  alone  with  his  crown 

of  gold. 

So  King  Solomon  stood  up,  dead,  in  the 

House 

Of  the  Lord,  held  there  by  the  Pente- 
graph, 

Until  out  from  a  pillar  there  ran  a  red 

mouse, 
And  gnawed  through  his  ebony  staff : 

Then,   flat   on  his  face,   the   King  fell 
down  : 

And  they  picked  from  the  dust  a  golden 
crown.* 


CORDELIA. 

THOUGH  thou  never  hast  sought  to  divine 

it, 

Though  to  know  it  thou  hast  not  a  care, 
Vet  my  heart  can  no  longer  confine  it, 
Though  my  lip  may  be  blanched  to  de- 
clare 

That  J  love  thee,  revere  thee,  adore  thee, 
0  my  d*-eam,  my  desire,  my  despair  ! 

Though  iu  Hfe  it  may  never  be  given 
To  my  heart.  *o  repose  upon  thine  ; 
Though  neither  on  earth,  nor  in  heaven, 
May  the  bliss  I  hav^  dreamed  of  be  mine  ; 
Yet  thou  canst  uot  forbid  me,  in  distance.. 
And  silence,  and  long  icoely  years, 
To  love  thee,  despite  thy  resistance, 
And  bless  thee,  despite  of  my  team. 

Ah  me,  couldst  thou  love  me  !  ...  Be- 
lieve me, 

How  I  hang  on  the  tones  of  thy  voice  ; 

How  the  least  sigh  thou  sighest  can  grieve 
me, 

The  least  smile  then  smilest  rejoice  : 


*  My  knowledge  of  the  Rabbinical  legend 
which  suggested  this  Poem  is  one  among  the 
many  debts  I  owe  to  my  friend  Robert  Browff- 
ing.  I  hope  these  lines  may  remind  him  of 
hours  which  his  society  rendered  precious  and 
delightful  to  me,  r»nd  which  are  among  the  most 
pleasant  memories  of  my  life. 


IN   HOLLAND. 


247 


In  thy  face,  how  I  watch  every  shade 

there  ; 

In  thine  eyes,  how  I  learn  every  look  ; 
How  the  least  sign  thy  spirit  hath  made 

there 
My  heart  reads,  and  writes  in  its  book  ! 

And  each  day  of  my  life  my  love  shapes 
me 

From  the  mien  that  thou  wearest,  Be- 
loved. 

Thou  hast  not  a  grace  that  escapes  me, 

Nor  a  movement  that  leaves  me  unmoved. 

I  live  but  to  see  thee,  to  hear  thee  ; 

I  count  but  the  hours  where  thou  art ; 

I  ask  —  only  ask  —  to  be  near  thee, 

Albeit  so  far  from  thy  heart. 

In  my  life's  lonely  galleries  never 
Will  be  silenced  thy  lightest  footfall  : 
For  it  lingers,  and  echoes,  forever 
Unto  Memory  mourning  o'er  all. 
All  thy  fair  little  footsteps  are  bright 
O'er  the  dark  troubled  spirit  in  me, 
As  the  tracks  of  some  sweet  water-sprite 
O'er  the  heaving  and  desolate  sea. 
And,  though  cold  and  unkind  be  thine 

eyes, 

Yet,  unchilled  their  unkindness  below, 
In  my  heart  all  its  love  for  thee  lies, 
Like  a  violet  covered  by  snow. 

Little  child  !  .  .  .  were  it  mine  to  watch 
o'er  thee, 

To  guide,  and  to  guard,  and  to  soothe  ; 

To  shape  the  long  pathway  before  thee, 

And  all  that  was  rugged  to  smooth ; 

To  kneel  at  one  bedside  by  night, 

And  mingle  our  souls  in  one  prayer  ; 

And,  awaked  by  the  same  morning- 
light, 

The  same  daily  duties  to  share  ; 

Until  Age  with  his  silver  dimmed  slowly 
Those  dear  golden  tresses  of  thine  ; 
And  Memory  rendered  thrice  holy 
The  love  in  this  poor  heart  of  mine  ; 

Ah,  never  .  .  .  (recalling  together, 
By  one  hearth,  in  our  life's  winter  time, 
Our  youth,  with  its  lost  summer  weather, 
And  our  love,  in  its  first  golden  prime,) 
Should  those  loved  lips  have  cause  to  re- 
cord 

One  word  of  unkindness  from  me, 
Or  my  heart  cease  to  bless  the  least  word 
Of  kindness"  once  spoken  by  thee  ! 


But,  whatever  my  path,  and  whatever 

The  future  may  fashion  for  thine, 

Thy  life,  0  believe  me,  can  never, 

My  beloved,  be  indifferent  to  mine. 

When  far  from  the  sight  of  thy  beauty, 

Pursuing,  unaided,  alone, 

The  path  of  man's  difficult  duty 

In  the  land  where  my  lot  may  be  thrown  ;« 

When  my  steps  move  no  more  in  the 

place 
Where  thou  art :  and  the  brief  days  of 

yore 

Are  forgotten  :  and  even  my  face 
In  thy  life  is  remembered  no  more  ; 
Yet  in  my  life  will  live  thy  least  feature  ; 
I  shall  mourn  the  lost  light  of  thine  eyes ; 
And  on  earth  there  will  yet  be  one  nature 
That  must  yearn  after  thine  till  it  dies. 


"YE  SEEK  JESUS  OF  NAZARETH 
WHICH    WAS    CRUCIFIED:    HE 
IS   RISEN  :  HE  IS  NOT  HERE." 
MARK  xvi.  6. 

IF  Jesus  came  to  earth  again, 

And  walked,  and  talked,  in  field  and 

street, 
Who  would  not  lay  his  human  pain 

Low  at  those  heavenly  feet  ? 

And  leave  the  loom,  and  leave  the  lute, 
And  leave  the  volume  on  the  shelf, 

To  follow  Him,  unquestioning,  mute, 
If  't  were  the  Lord  himself  ? 

How  many  a  brow  with  care  o'erworn, 
How  many  a  heart  with  grief  o'erladen, 

How  many  a  youth  with  love  forlorn, 
How  many  a  mourning  maiden, 

Would  leave  the  baffling  earthly  prize 
Which  fails   the   earthly,    weak  en- 
deavor, 

To  gaze  into  those  holy  eyes, 
And  drink  content  forever  ! 

The  mortal  hope,  I  ask  with  tears 
Of    Heaven,    to    soothe    this   mortal 
'   pain,  — 

The  dream  of  all  my  darkened  years,  — 
I  should  not  cling  to  then. 

The  pride  that  prompts  the  bitter  jest  — • 
(Sharp  styptic  of  a  bleeding  heart  ! ) 

Would  fail,  and  humbly  leave  confest 
The  sin  that  brought  the  smart, 


248 


THE  WANDERER. 


If  I  might  crouch  within  the  fold 
Of  that  white  robe  (a  wounded  bird)  ; 

The  1'aee  that  Mary  saw  Ix-huld, 
And  hear  the  words  she  heard. 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  all 
That  now  my  nature  yearns  to  know ; — 

The  legend  of  the  ancient  Fall ; 
The  source  of  human  woe  : 

What  hopes  in  other  worlds  may  hide  ; 

What  griefs  yet  unexplored  in  this  ; 
How  fares  the  spirit  within  the  wide 

Waste  tract  of  that  abyss 

Which  scares  the  heart  (since  all  we  know 
Of  life  is  only  conscious  sorrow) 

Lest  novel  life  be  novel  woe 

In  death's  undawned  to-morrow  ; 

I  would  not  ask  one  word  of  this, 
If  I  might  only  hide  my  head 

On  that  beloved  breast,  and  kiss 
The  wounds  where  Jesus  bled. 

And  I,  where'er  He  went,  would  go, 
Nor  question  where  the  path  might 
lead, 

Enough  to  know  that,  here  below, 
I  walked  with  God  indeed  ! 

His  sheep  along  the  cool,  the  shade, 
By  the  still  watercourse  He  leads, 

His  lambs  upon  His  breast  are  laid, 
His  hungry  ones  He  feeds. 

Safe  in  His  bosom  I  should  lie, 

Hearing,  where'er  His  steps  might  be, 

Calm  waters,  murmuring,  murmuring  by, 
To  meet  the  mighty  sea. 

If  this  be  thus,  0  Lord  of  mine, 
In  absence  is  Thy  love  forgot  ? 

And  must  I,  when-  1  walk,  repine 
Because  I  see  thee  not  ? 

If  this  be  thus,  if  this  be  thus, 
And  our  poor  prayers  yet  reach  Thee, 
Lord, 

Since  we  are  weak,  once  more  to  us 
Reveal  the  Living  Word  ! 

Yet  is  my  heart,  indeed,  so  weak 
My  course  alone  I  dare  not  trace  ? 

Alas  !  I  know  my  heart  must  break 
Before  I  see  Thy  face. 


I  loved,  with  all  my  human  soul, 
A  human  creature,  here  below, 

Ami,  though  thou  bad'st  thy  sea  to  roll 
Forever  twixt  us  two*, 

And  though  her  form  I  may  not  see 
Through  all  my  long  and  lonely  life, 

And  though  she  never  now  may  be 
My  helpmate  and  my  wife, 

Yet  in  my  dreams  her  dear  eyes  shine, 
Yet  in  my  heart  her  face  I  bear, 

And  yet  each  holiest  thought  of  mine 
I  seem  with  her  to  share. 

But,  Lord,  Thy  face  I  never  saw, 
Nor  ever  heard  Thy  human  voice  : 

My  life,  beneath  an  iron  law, 
Moves  on  without  my  choice. 

No  memory  of  a  happier  time, 

When   in   Thine  arms,   perchance,   I 

slept, 
In  some  lost  ante-natal  clime, 

My  mortal  frame  hath  kept : 

And  all  is  dark  —  before  —  behind. 

I  cannot  reach  Thee,  where  Thou  art, 
I  cannot  bring  Thee  to  my  mind, 

Nor  clasp  Thee  to  my  heart. 

And  this  is  why,  by  night  and  day, 
Still  with  so  many  an  unseen  tear 

These  lonely  lips  have  learned  to  pray 
That  God  would  spare  me  here, 

While  yet  my  doubtful  course  I  go 
Along  the  vale  of  mortal  years, 

By  Life's  dull  stream,  that  will  not  flow 
As  fast  as  flow  my  tears, 

One  human  hand,  my  hand  to  take  : 
One  human  heart,  my  own  to  raise  : 

One  loving  human  voice,  to  break 
The  silence  of  my  days. 

Saviour,  if  this  wild  prayer  be  wrong, 
And  what  I  seek  I  may  not  find, 

0,   make   more   hard,    and   stern,    and 

strong, 
The  framework  of  my  mind  ! 

Or,  nearer  to  me,  in  the  dark 

Of  life's  low  hours,  one  moment  stand, 
And  give  me  keener  eyes  to  mark 

The  moving  of  Thy  hand. 


IN   HOLLAND. 


249 


TO  CORDELIA. 

I  DO  not  blame  thee,  that  ray  life 
Is  lonelier  now  than  even  before  ; 

For  hadst  thou  been,  indeed,  my  wife, 
(Vain  dream  that  cheats  no  more  !) 

The  fate,  which  from  my  earliest  years 
Hath  made  so  dark  the  path  I  tread, 

Had  taught  thee  too,  perchance,  such  tears 
As  I  have  learned  to  shed. 

And  that  fixed  gloom,  which  souls  like 

mine 
Are  schooled  to  wear  with  stubborn 

pride, 

Had  cast  too  dark  a  shade  o'er  thine,  — 
Hadst  thou  been  by  my  side. 

I  blame  thee  not,  that  thou  shouldst  flee 
From  paths  where  only  weeds  have 
sprung, 

Though  loss  of  thee  is  loss  to  me 
Of  all  that  made  youth  young. 

For  't  is  not  mine,  and  't  was  not  thine, 
To  shape  our  course  as  first  we  strove  : 

And  powers  which  I  could  not  combine 
Divide  me  from  thy  love. 

Alas  !  we  cannot  choose  our  lives,  — 
We  can  but  bear  the  burthen  given. 

In  vain  the  feverish  spirit  strives 
With  unrelenting  heaven. 

For  who  can  bid  those  tyrant  stars 
The  injustice  of  their  laws  repeal  ? 

Why  ask  who  makes  our  prison  bars, 
Since  they  are  made  of  steel  ?    • 

The  star  that  rules  my  darkened  hour 
Is  fixt  in  reachless  spheres  on  high  : 

The  curse  which  foils  my  baffled  power 
Is  scrawled  across  the  sky. 

My  heart  knows  all  it  felt,  and  feels  : 
But  more  than  this  I  shall  not  know, 

Till  He  that  made  the  heart  reveals 
Why  mine  must  suffer  so. 

I  only  know  that,  never  yet, 

My  life  hath  found  what  others  find,  — 
That  peace  of  heart  which  will  not  fret 

The  fibres  of  the  mind. 

I  only  know  that  not  for  me 
The  human  love,  the  clasp,  the  kiss  ; 


My  love  in  other  worlds  must  be,  — 
Why  was  I  born  in  this  ? 

The  bee  is  framed  to  find  her  food 
In  every  wayside  flower  and  bell, 

And  build  within  the  hollow  wood 
Her  own  ambrosial  cell : 

The  spider  hath  not  learned  her  art, 
A  home  in  ruined  towers  to  spin  ; 

But  what  it  seeks,  my  heart,  my  heart 
Is  all  unskilled  to  win. 

The  world  was  filled,  ere  I  was  born, 
With  man  and  maid,  with  bower  and 
brake, 

And  nothing  but  the  barren  thorn 
Remained  for  me  to  take  : 

I  took  the  thorn,  I  wove  it  round, 
I  made  a  piercing  crown  to  wear  : 

My  own  sad  hands  myself  have  crowned, 
Lord  of  my  own  despair. 

That  which  we  are,   we  are.     'T  were 

vain* 

To  plant  with  toil  what  will  not  grow. 
The   cloud  will  break,   and  bring  the 

rain, 
Whether  we  reap  or  sow. 

I  cannot  turn  the  thunder-blast, 
Nor  pluck  the  levin's  lurid  root ; 

I  cannot  change  the  changeless  past, 
Nor  make  the  ocean  mute. 

And  if  the  bolt  of  death  must  fall 
Where,  bare  of  head,  I  walk  my  way, 

Why  let  it  fall  !     I  will  not  call 
To  bid  the  Thunderer  stay. 

'T  is  much  to  know,  whate'er  betide 
The  pilgrim  path  I  pace  alone, 

Thou  wilt  not  miss  me  from  thy  side 
When  its  brief  course  is  done. 

Hadst  thou  been  mine,  —  when   skies 

were  drear 
And  waves  were  rough,  for  thy  sweet 

sake 

I  should  have  found  in  all  some  fear 
My  inmost  breast  to  shake  : 

But  now,  his  fill  the  blast  may  blow, 
The  sea  may  rage,  the  thunder  roll, 

For  every  path  by  which  I  go 
Will  reach  the  self-same  goal. 


250 


THE  WANDERER. 


Too  proud  to  fly,  too  weak  to  cope, 
I  yet  will  wait,  nor  bow  my  head. 

Those  who  have  nothing  left  to  hope, 
Have  nothing  left  to  dread. 


A  LETTER  TO  CORDELIA. 

PERCHANCE,  on  earth,  I  shall  not  see 

thee  ever 

Ever  again  :  and  my  unwritten  years 
Are    signed    out    by    that    desolating 

"  Never," 
And  blurred  with  tears. 

'T  is  hard,  so  young  —  so  young  as  I  am 

still, 

To  feel  forevermore  from  life  depart 
All   that   can   flatter   the   poor  human 

will, 
Or  fill  the  heart. 

Yet  there  was  nothing  in  that  sweet, 

and  brief,  , 

And  perisht  intercourse,  now  closed 

for  me, 
To  add  one  thought  unto  my  bitterest 

grief 
Upbraiding  thee. 

'T  is  somewhat  to  have  known,  albeit  in 

vain, 

One  woman  in  this  sorrowful  bad  earth, 
Whose  very  loss  can  yet  bequeathe  to 

pain 
New  faith  in  worth. 

If  I  have  overrated,  in  the  wild 

Blind  heat  of  hope,  the  sense  of  aught 
which  hath 

From  the  lost  vision  of  thy  beauty  smiled 
On  my  lone  path, 

My  retribution  is,  that  to  the  last 
I   have  o'errated,  too,   my  power  to 

cope 
With  this  fierce  thought  .  .  .  that  life 

must  all  be  past 
Without  life's  hope ; 

And  I  would  bless  the  chance  which  let 

me  see 
Once  more  the  comfort  of  thy  face, 

although 

It  were  with  beauty  never  born  for  me 
That  face  should  glow. 


To  see  thee  —  all  thou  wilt  be  —  loved 

and  loving  — 
Even  though  another's  —  in  the  years 

to  come  — 

To  watch,  once  more,  thy  gracious  sweet- 
ness moving 
Through  its  pure  home,  — 

Even  this  would  seem  less  desolate,  less 

drear, 
Than   never,   never   to   behold   thee 

more  — 

Never  on  those  belove'd  lips  to  hear 
The  voice  of  yore  ! 

These  weak  words,  0  my  friend,  fell  not 

more  fast 
Than  the  weak  scalding  tears  that  with 

them  fell. 
Nor  tears,  nor  words  came,  when  I  saw 

thee  last .  .  . 
Enough  !  .  .  .  Farewell. 

Farewell.     If  that  dread  Power  which 

fashioned  man 
To  till  this  planet,  free  to  search  and 

find 

The  secret  of  his  source  as  best  he  can, 
In  his  own  mind, 

Hath  any  care,  apart  from  that  which 

moves 
Earth's  myriads  through  Time's  ages 

as  they  roll, 

For  any  single  human  life,  or  loves 
One  separate  soul, 

May  He,  whose  wisdom  portions  out  for 

me 
The  moonless,  changeless  midnight  of 

the  heart, 

Still  all  his  softest  sunshine  save  for  thee, 
Where'er  thou  art : 

And  if,  indeed,  not  any  human  eyes 
From  human  tears  be  free,  —  may  Sor- 
row bring 

Only  to  thee  her  April-rain,  whose  sighs 
Soothe  flowers  in  Spring. 


FAILURE. 

I  HAVE  seen  those  that  wore  Heaven's 

armor  worsted  : 
I  have  heard  Truth  lie  : 


IN   HOLLAND. 


251 


Seen  Life,  beside  the  founts  for  which 

it  thirsted, 
Curse  God  and  die  : 

I  have  felt  the  hand,  whose  touch  was 

rapture,  braiding 
Among  my  hair 
Love's  choicest  flowerets,  and  have  found 

how  fading 
Those  garlands  were  : 

1  have  watched  my  first  and  holiest  hopes 

depart, 

One  after  one  : 
I  have  held  the  hand  of  Death  upon  my 

heart, 
And  made  no  moan  : 

I  have  seen  her  whom  life's  whole  sacrifice 

AVas  made  to  keep, 
Pass  coldly  by  me  with  a  stranger's  eyes, 

Yet  did  not  weep  : 

Now  even  my  body  fails  me ;  and  my  brow 

Aches  night  and  day  : 
I  am  weak  with  over-work  :  how  can  I 
now 

Go  forth  and  play  ? 

What  !  now  that  Youth's  forgotten  as- 
pirations 
Are  all  no  more, 

Rest  there,  indeed,  all  Youth's  glad  rec- 
reations, 
—  An  untried  store  ? 

Alas,  what  skills  this  heart  of  sad  expe- 
rience, 

This  frame  o'erwrought, 
This  memory  with  life  's  motion  all  at 

variance, 
This  aching  thought  ? 

How  shall  I  come,  with  these,  to  follow 

pleasure 

Where  others  find  it  ? 
Will  not  their  sad  steps  mar  the  merriest 

measure, 
Or  lag  behind  it  ? 

Still  must  the  man  move  sadlier  for  the 

dreams 

That  mocked  the  boy  ; 
And,  having  failed  to  achieve,  must  still, 

it  seems, 
Fail  to  enjoy. 


It  is  no  common  failure,  to  have  failed 

Where  man  hath  given 
A  whole  life's  effort  to  the  task  assailed  — 

Spent  earth  on  heaven. 

If  error  and  if  failure  enter  here, 
What  helps  repentance  ? 

Remember  this,  0  Lord,  in  thy  severe 
Last  sentence  ! 


MISANTHROPOS. 

(cows  teal  iravra.  ye\w  /cat  iravra 
TO  /j.r)8ei>. 


DAY'S  last  light  is  dying  out. 

All  the  place  grows  dim  and  drear  : 
See  !  the  grisly  bat  's  about. 

There  is  nothing  left  to  fear  ' 
Little  left  to  doubt. 

Not  a  note  of  music  flits 

O'er  the  slackened  harpstrings  yonder 
From  the  skeleton  that  sits 

By  the  broken  harp,  to  ponder 
(While  the  spider  knits 

Webs  iu  each  black  socket-hole) 

Where  is  all  the  music  fled. 
Music,  hath  it,  then,  a  goal  ?  .  .  . 

Broken  harp,  and  brainless  head  ! 
Silent  song  and  soul  ! 

Not  a  light  in  yonder  sky, 
Save  that  single  wicked  star, 

Leering  with  its  wanton  eye 
Through  the  shattered  window-bar  ; 

Come  to  see  me  die  ! 

All,  save  this,  the  monstrous  night 
Hath  erased  and  blotted  bare 

As  the  fool's  brain  .  .  .  God's  last  light 
Winking  at  the  Fiend's  work  there,  -~ 

Wrong  made  worse  by  right  ! 

Gone  the  voice,  the  face,  of  yore  ! 

Gone  the  dream  of  golden  hair  ! 
Gone  the  garb  that  Falsehood  wore  ! 

Gone  the  shame  of  being  bare  ! 
We  may  close  the  door. 

All  the  guests  are  slunk  away. 

Not  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  ! 
Not  a  friend  here,  left  to  say 

"Amen  "  to  a  sinner's  prayers, 
If  he  cared  to  pray  ! 


252 


TIIK   WANDERER 


Gone  is  Friendship's  friendliness, 

After  I,o\v'>  fidelity  : 
Gone  is  Honor  in  tin-  mess, 

Spat  upon  by  Charity  : 
Faith  has  fled  Distress. 

Tho*?  grim  tipstaves  at  the  gate 
Freely  may  their  work  begin. 

Let  them  in  !  they  shall  not  wait. 
There  is  little  now  within 

Left  for  Scorn  and  Hate. 

0,  no  doubt  the  air  is  foul  ! 

"T  is  the  last  lamp  spits  and  stinks, 
Shuddering  downward  in  the  bowl 

Of  the  socket,  from  the  brinks. 
What 's  a  burned-out  soul  ? 

Let  them  all  go,  un  reproved  ! 

For  the  source  of  tears  is  dried. 
What!  .  .  .  One  rests? .  .  .  hath  nothing 
moved 

That  pale  woman  from  my  side, 
Whom  1  never  loved  ? 

You,  with  those  dim  eyes  of  yours, 
Sadder  than  all  eyes  save  mine  ! 

That  dim  forehead  which  immures 
Such  faint  helpless  griefs,  that  pine 

For  such  hopeless  cures  ! 

Must  you  love  me,  spite  of  loathing  ? 

Can't  you  leave  me  where  I  'm  lying  ? 
0,  ...  you  wait  for  our  betrothing  ? 

I  escape  you,  though,  —  by  dying  ! 
Lay  out  my  death-clothing. 

Well  I  would  that  your  white  face 

Were  abolisht  out  of  sight, 
With  the  glory  and  the  grace 

Swallowed  long  ago  in  night,  — 
Gone,  — without  a  trace  ! 

Reach  me  down  my  golden  harp. 

Set  it  here,  beside  my  knee. 
Never  fear  that  I  shall  warp 

All  the  chords  of  ecstasy, 
Striking  them  too  sharp  ! 

Crown  me  with  my  crown  of  flowers. 

Faded  roses  every  one  ! 
Pluckt  in  those  long-perisht  bowers, 

By  the  nightshade  overrun,  — 
Fit  for  brows  like  ours  ! 

Fill  me,  now,  my  golden  cup. 
Pour  the  black  wine  to  the  brim  I 


Till  within  me,  while  I  sup, 

All  the  fires,  long  quenched  and  dim, 
Flare,  one  moment,  up. 

I  will  sing  you  a  last  song. 

I  will  pledge  you  a  last  health  .  .  . 
Here  's  to  Weakness  seeming  strong  ! 

Here  's  to  Want  that  follows  Wealth  ! 
Here  's  to  Right  gone  wrong  ! 

Curse  me  now  the  Oppressor's  rod, 
And  the  meanness  of  the  weak  ; 

And  the  fool  that  apes  the  nod  ; 
And  the  world  at  hide  and  seek 

With  the  wrath  of  God. 

Dreams  of  man's  unvalued  good, 
By  mankind's  unholy  means  ! 

Curse  the  people  in  their  mud ! 

And  the  wicked  Kings  and  Queens, 

Lying  by  the  Rood. 

Fill !  to  every  plague  .  .  .  and  first, 
Love,  that  breeds  its  own  decay  ; 

Rotten,  ere  the  blossom  burst. 
Next,  the  friend  that  slinks  away, 

When  you  need  him  worst. 

0  the  world's  inhuman  ways  ! 

And  the  heartless  social  lie  ! 
And  the  coward,  cheapening  praise ! 

And  the  patience  of  the  sky, 
Lighting  such  bad  days  ! 

Cursed  be  the  heritage 

Of  the  sins  we  have  not  sinned  ! 
Cursed  be  this  boasting  age, 

And  the  blind  that  lead  the  blind 
O'er  its  creaking  stage  ! 

O  the  vice  within  the  blood, 
And  the  sin  within  the  sense  ! 

And  the  fallen  angelhood, 

With  its  yearnings,  too  immense 

To  be  understood  ! 

Curse  the  hound  with  beaten  hide, 
When  he  turns  and  licks  the  hand. 

Curse  this  woman  at  my  side  ! 
And  the  memory  of  the  land 

Where  my  first  love  died. 

Cursed  be  the  next  and  most 

(With  whatever  curse  most  kills), 

Me  .  .  .  the  man  whose  soul  is  lost ; 
Fouled  by  each  of  all  these  ills,  — 

Filled  with  death  and  dust ! 


PALINGENESIS. 


253 


Take  away  the  harp  of  gold, 
And  the  empty  wine-cup  too. 

Lay  me  out  :  for  I  grow  cold. 
There  is  something  dim  in  view, 

Which  must  pass  untold  :  — 


Something  dim,  and  something  vast,  — 

Out  of  reach  of  all  I  say. 
Language  ceases  .  .  .  hasht,  aghast. 

What  am  I,  to  curse  or  pray  ? 
God  succeeds  at  last ! 


BOOK  YI.  -PALINGENESIS. 


A  PRAYER. 

MY  Saviour,  dare  I  come  to  Thee, 
Who  let  the  little  children  come  ? 
But  I  ?  .  .  .  my  soul  is  faint  in  me  ! 
I  come  from  wandering  to  and  fro 
This  weary  world.     There  still  his  round 
The  Accuser  goes  :  but  Thee  I  found 
Not  anywhere.     Both  joy  and  woe 
Have  passed  me  by.      I  am  too  weak 
To  grieve  or  smile.     And  yet  I  know 
That  tears  lie  deep  in  all  1  do. 
The  homeless  that  are  sick  for  home 
Are  not  so  wretched.     Ere  it  break, 
Receive  my  heart ;  and  for  the  sake, 
Not  of  my  sorrows,  but  of  Thine, 
Bend  down  Thy  holy  eyes  on  mine, 
Which  are  too  full  of  misery 
To  see  Thee  clearly,  though  they  seek. 
Yet,    if  I    heard   Thy  voice   say  .    .    . 

"Come," 

So  might  I,  dying,  die  near  Thee. 
It  shames  me  not,  to  have  passed  by 
The  temple-doors  in  every  street 
Where  men  profaned  Thee  :  but  that  I 
Have  left  neglected,  choked  with  weeds, 
Defrauded  of  its  incense  sweet 
From  holy  thoughts  and  loyal  deeds, 
The  fane  Thou  gavest  me  to  enshrine 
Thee  in,  this  wretched  heart  of  mine. 
The  Satyr  there  hath  entered  in  ; 
The  Owl  that  loves  the  darkened  hour  ; 
And  obscene  shapes  of  night  and  sin 
Still  haunt,  where  God  designed  a  bower 
For  angels. 

Yet  I  will  not  say 
How  oft  I  have  aspired  in  vain, 
How  toiled  along  the  rugged  way, 
And  held  my  faith  above  my  pain, 
For  this  Thou  knowest.     Thou  knowest 

when 

I  faltered,  and  when  I  was  strong  ; 
A  nd  how  from  that  of  other  men 
My  fate  was  different  ;  all  the  wrong 


Which  devastated  hope  in  me  : 
The  ravaged  years  ;  the  excited  heart, 
That  found  in  pain  its  only  part 
Of  love  :  the  master  misery 
That  shattered  all  my  early  years, 
From  which,  in  vain,  I  sought  to  flee  : 
Thou  knowest  the  long  repentant  tears, 
Thou  heard'st  me  cry  against  the  spheres, 
So  sharp  my  anguish  seemed  to  be  ! 
All  this  Thou  knowest.    Though  I  should 

keep 
Silence,  Thou  knowest  my  hands  were 

free 

From  sin,  when  all  things  cried  to  me 
To  sin.    Thou  knowest  that,  had  I  rolled 
My  soul  in  hell-flame  fifty-fold, 
My  sorrow  could  not  be  more  deep. 
Lord  !  tli  ere  is  nothing  hid  from  Thee. 


EUTHANASIA. 
(WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SEVERE  ILLNESS.) 

SPRING  to  the  world,   and  strength  to 

me,  returns ; 
And   flowers   return,  —  but    not    the 

flowers  I  knew. 

I  live  :  the  fire  of  life  within  me  burns  ; 
But  all  my  life  is  dead.     The  land  I 

view 

I  know  not ;  nor  the  life  which  I  regain. 
Within  the  hollow  of  the  hand  of  death 
I  have  lain  so  long,  that  now  I  draw 

the  breath 
Of  life  as  unfamiliar,  and  with  pain. 

Of  life  :   but  not  the  life  which  is  no 

more  ;  — 

That  tender,  tearful,  warm,  and  pas- 
sionate thing ; 
That  wayward,   restless,  wistful  life  of 

yore  ; 

Which  now  lies,   cold,    beneath   the 
clasp  of  Spring, 


254 


THE  WANDERER. 


As  last  year's  leaves  :  but  such  a  life  as 

seems 
A  strange  new-comer,   coy  and  all- 

afraid. 
No  motion  heaves  the  heart  where  it 

is  laid, 

Save  when  the  past  returns  to  me  in 
dreams. 

In  dreams,    like  memories  of  another 

world  : 
The  beauty,  and  the  passion,  and  the 

pain, 
The  wizardry  by  which  my  youth  was 

whirled 
Round  vain  desires,  —  so  violent,  yet 

so  vain  ! 

The  love  which  desolated  life,  yet  made 
So  dear  its  desolation  :  and  the  creeds 
Which,  one  by  one,  snapped  in  my 

hold  like  reeds, 

Beneath  the  weight  of  need  upon  them 
laid! 

For  each  man  deems  his  own  sand-house 

secure 
While  life's  wild   waves  are  lulled  ; 

yet  who  can  say, 

If  yet  his  faith's  foundations  do  endure, 
It  is  not  that  no  wind  hath   blown 

that  way  ? 
Must  we,  even  for  their  beauty's  sake, 

keep  furled 
Our  fairest  creeds,  lest  earth  should 

sully  them, 
And  take   what   ruder    help    chance 

sends,  to  stem 

The  rubs  and  wrenchings  of  this  boister- 
ous world  ? 

Alas  !  't  is  not  the  creed  that  saves  the 

man  : 

It  is  the  man  that  justifies  the  creed  : 
And  eachmust  save  hisown  soul  as  hecan, 
Since  each  is  burthened  with  a  differ- 
ent need. 
Round  each  the  bandit  passions  lurk ; 

and,  fast 

And  furious,  swarm  to  strip  the  pil- 
grim bare  ; 

Then,  oft,  in  lonely  places  unaware, 
Fall  on  him,  and  do  murder  him  at  last. 

And  oft  the  light  of  truth,  which  through 

the  dark 

We  fetched  such   toilful   compass  to 
detect, 


Glares  through  the  broken  cloud  on  the 

lost  Iciik, 
And  shows  the  rock  —  too  late,  whrn 

all  is  wrecked  ! 
Not  from  one  watch-tower  o'er  the  deep, 

alone, 
It  streams,    but   lightens    there   and 

lightens  here 

With  lights  so  numberless  (like  heav- 
en's eighth  sphere) 
That  all  their  myriad  splendors  seem  bat 


Time  was,  when  it  seemed  possible  to  be 
(Then,  when  this  shatter^  prow  first 

felt  the  foam) 

Columbus  to  some  far  Philosophy, 
And  bring,  perchance,  the  golden  In- 
dies home. 

0  siren  isles  of  the  enchanted  main 
Through   which    I    lingered  !    altars, 

1 0711]  iles,  groves, 
Whelmed  in  the  salt  sea  wave,  that 

rolls  and  roves 
Around  each  desolated  lost  domain  ! 

Over  all  these  hath  passed  the  deluge. 

And, 
Saved  from  the  sea,  forlornly  face  to 

face 

With  the  gaunt  ruin  of  a  world,  I  sttind. 

But  two  alone  of  all  that  perisht  race 

Survive  to  share  with  me  my  wanderings  ; 

Doubt   and    Experience.     These   mj 

steps  attend, 
Ever  ;   and  oft  above  my  harp  they 

bend, 

And,  weeping  with  me,  weep  among  ita 
strings. 

Yet,  — saved,  though  in  a  land  uncon- 

secrate 

By  any  memory,  it  seems  good  to  me 
To  build  an  altar  to  the  Lord  ;  and  wait 
Some  token,  either  from  the  land  orsea, 
To  point  me  to  my  rest,  which  should 

be  near. 
Rude  is  the  work,  and  simple  is  my 

skill  ; 
Yet,  if  the  hand  could  answer  to  the 

will, 

This    pile    should    lack    not    incense. 
Father,  hear 

My  cry  unto  thee.     Make  thy  covenant 
Fast  with   my  spirit.     Bind   within 
Thy  bow 


'FOR   EACH   MAN    DEEMS    HIS   OWN    SAND-HOUSE   SECURE." — Page  254. 


PALINGENESIS. 


255 


The  whole  horizon  of  my  tears.     I  pant 
For  Thy  refreshing.     Bid  Thy  foun- 
tains flow 

In  this  dry  desert,  where  no  springs  I  see. 
Before  I  venture  in  an  unknown  land, 
Here  will  I  clear  the  ground  on  which 

I  stand, 
And  justify  the  hope  Thou  gavest  me. 

I  cannot  make  quite  clear  what  comes 

and  goes 

In  fitful  light,  by  waning  gleams  de- 
scried. 
The    Spirit,    blowing  where  it  listeth, 

blows 

Only  at  times,  some  single  fold  aside 
Of  that  great  veil  which  hangs  o'er  the 

Unknown  : 
Yet  do  the  feeble,  fleeting  lights  that 

fall, 

Reveal  enough,  in  part,  for  hope  in  all : 
And  that  seems  surest  which  the  least  is 
shown. 

God  is  a  spirit.     It  is  also  said 

Man  is  a  spirit.     Can  I  therefore  deem 

The  two  in  nature  separate  ?  The  made 
Hath  in  it  of  the  Maker.  Hence  I 


A  step  towards  light ;  —  since  't  is  the 

property 

Of  spirit  to  possess  itself  in  all 
It  is  possest  by  ;  —  halved  yet  integral ; 

One  person,  various  personality. 

To  say  the  Infinite  is  that  which  lies 
Beyond  the  Finite,  .  .  .  were  it  not  to 

set 
A  border  mark  to  the  immensities  ? 

Far  as  these  mortal  senses  measure  yet 
Their  little  region  of  the  mighty  plan, 
Through  valves  of  birth  and  death  — 

are  heard  forever 

The  finite  steps  of  infinite  endeavor 
Moving  through  Nature  and  the  mind 
of  man. 

If  man,  — the  finite  spirit,  —  in  infinity 

Alone  can  find  the  truth  of  his  ideal, 
Dare  I  not  deem  that  infinite  Divinity 

Within  the  finite  must  assume  the  real  ? 
Forwhat  so  feverish  fancy,  reckless  hurled 

Through  a  ruined  brain,  did  ever  yet 
descry 

A  symbol  sad  enough  to  signify 
The  conscious  God  of  an  unconscious 
world  ? 


Wherefore,  thus  much  perceived,  to  rec- 
'  ognize 

In  God,  the  infinite  spirit  of  Unity, 
In  man,  the  finite  spirit,  here  implies 

An  interchanged  perception  ; — -Deity 
Within  humanity  made  manifest : 

Not  here  man  lonely,  there  a  lonely 
God; 

But,  in  all  paths  by  human  nature  trod, 
Infinity  in  Fiuity  exprest. 

This  interchange,  upon  man's  part,  I  call 
Religion  :  revelation  on  the  part 

Of  Deity  :  wherefrom  there  seems  to  fall 
'Tis    consequence    (the    point    from 
which  I  start) 

If  God  and  man  be  one  (a  unity 

Of  which  religion  is  the  human  side) 
This  must  in  man's  religion  be  descried, 

A  consciousness  and  a  reality. 

Whilst  man  in  nature  dwells,  his  God  is 

still 

In  nature  ;  thence,  in  time,  there  in- 
tervenes 

The  Law  :  he  learns  to  fortify  his  will 
Against    his    passions,     by    external 

means  : 
And  God  becomes  the  Lawgiver  :    but 

when 

Corruption  in  the  natural  state  we  see, 
And  in  the  legal  hopeless  tyranny, 
We  seem  to  need  (if  needed  not  till  then) 

That  which  doth  uplift  nature,  and  yet 

makes 

More  light  the  heavy  letter  of  the  law. 

Then  for  the  Perfect  the  Imperfect  aches, 

Till  love  is  born  upon  the  deeps  of  awe. 

Yet  what  of  this,  .  .  .  that  God  in  man 

may  be, 
And  man,  though  mortal,  of  a  race 

divine, 

If  no  assurance  lives  which  may  incline 
The  heart  of  man  to  man's  divinity  ? 

"  There  is  no  God  "...  the  Fool  saith 

—  to  his  Jieart, 

Yet  shapes  a  godhead  from  his  intellect. 
Is  mind  than  heart  less  human,  .  .  .  that 

we  part 
Thought  from  affection,  and  from  mind 

erect 
A  deity  merely  intellectual  ? 

If  God  there  be,  devoid  of  sympathy 
For  man,  he  is  not  man's  divinity. 
A  God  unloving  were  no  God  at  all. 


256 


THK    WANDF.i; HI.. 


This  felt,  ...  I  ask  not  ..."  What  is 

God  ?  "  but  "  What 
Are   my  relations  with   Him  ?  "  this 

alone 
Concerns  me  now  :  since,  if  I  know  this 

not, 
Though  I  should  know  the  sources  of 

the  sun, 

Or  what  within  the  hot  heart  of  the  earth 
Lulls  the  soft  spirit  of  the  fire,  although 
The  ma'ndate  of  the  thunder  I  should 

know, 

To  me  my  knowledge  would  be  nothing 
worth. 

What  message,   or  what   messenger  to 

man  ? 
Whereby  shall   revelation   reach   the 

soul  ? 
For  who,  by  searching,  finds  out  God  ? 

How  can 
My  utmost  steps,  unguided,  gain  the 

goal 

Of  necessary  knowledge  ?     It  is  clear 
I  cannot  reach  the  gates  of  heaven, 

and  knock 
And  enter  :  though  I  stood  upon  the 

rock 

Like  Moses,  God  must  speak  ere  I  can 
hear, 

And  touch  me  ere  I  feel  him.     He  must 

come 

To  me  (I  cannot  join  Him  in  the  cloud), 
Stand  at  the  dim  doors  of  my  mortal 

home  ; 
Lift  the  low  latch  of  life  ;  and  enter, 

bowed 

Unto  this  earthly  roof  ;  and  sit  within 
The  circle  of  the  senses  ;  at  the  hearth 
Of  the  affections  ;  be  my  guest  on  earth, 
Loving  my  love,  and  sorrowing  in  my 
sin. 


e,   though  I  stripped   Divinity,   in 

thought, 

From  passion,  which  is  personality, 
My  God  would  still  be  human  :  though 

I  sought 
In  the  bird's  wing  or  in  the  insect's 

eve, 

Rather  than  in  this  broken  heart  of  mine, 
His  presence,   human  still  :    human 

would  be 
All  human  thought  conceives.     Hu- 

manity, 
Being  lew  human,  is  not  more  divine. 


The  soul,  then,  cannot  stipulate  or  refuse 

Tin-  I'ii.-hion  of  the  heavenly  eml 
Since  God  is  here  the  speaker,  He  must 

choose 

The  words  He  wills.     Already  I  descry 
That  God  and  man  arc.  one,  divid,  ; 
Yet  reconcilable.     One  doubt  survive. 
There  is  a  dread  condition  to  n\<-n\ 

lives  : 

We  die  :  and,  from  its  death,  it  would 
appear 

Our  nature  is  not  one  with  the  divine. 
Not  so.     The  Man-God  dies  ;  and  by 

his  death 

Doth  with  his  own  immortal  lifecombiin' 
The  spirit  pining  in  thismortiil  breath. 
Who  from  himself  himself  did  .alienate 
That  he,  returning  to  himself,  might 

pave 
A  pathway  hence,  to  heaven  from  the 

grave, 

For  man  to  follow  —  through  the  heav- 
enly gate. 

Wert  thou,  my  Christ,  not  ignorant  of 

grief? 

A  man  of  sorrows  ?  Not  for  sorrow's  sak  e 
(Lord,  1  believe :  helpthoumineunbelief !) 
Beneath  the  thorns  did  thy  pure  fore- 
head ache : 

But  that  in  sorrow  only,  unto  sorrow, 
Can  comfort  come  ;  in  manhood  only, 

man 
Perceive  man's  destiny.     In  Nature's 

plan 
Our  path  is  over  Midnight  to  To-morrow. 

And  so  the  Prince  of  Life,  in  dying,  gave 
Undying  life   to  mortals.     Once  he 

stood 

Among  his  fellows,  on  this  side  the  grave, 

A  man,  perceptible  to  flesh  and  blood  : 

Now,  taken  from  our  sight,  he  dwells  no 

teH 
Within     our    mortal     memory     and 

thought ; 

The  mystery  of  all  hewas,  and  wrought, 
Is  made  a  part  of  general  consciousness. 

And  in  this  consciousness  I  reach  repose. 
Spent   with   the   howling  main   and 

desert  sand 
Almost  too  faint  to  pluck  the  unfading 

rose 

Of  peace,  that  bows  its  beauty  to  my 
hapd. 


PALINGENESIS. 


257 


Here  Reason  fails,  and  leaves  me ;  my 

pale  guide 
Across  the  wilderness  —  by  a  stern 

command, 
Shut  out,  like  Moses,  from  the  Prom- 

ist  Land. 

Touching  its  own  achievement,  it  hath 
died. 

Ah  yet  !  I  have  but  wrung  the  victory 
From  Thought !     Not  passionless  will 

be  iny  path. 

Yet  on  my  life's  pale  forehead  I  can  see 
The  flush  of  squandered  fires.     Passion 

hath 

Yet,  in  the  purpose  of  my  days,  its  place. 
But  changed  in  aspect :  turned  unto 

the  East, 
Whence  grows  the  dayspring  from  on 

high,  at  least 
A  finer  fervor  trembles  on  its  face. 


THE  SOUL'S  SCIENCE. 

CAN  History  prove  the  truth  which  hath 
Its  record  in  the  silent  soul  ? 

Or  Mathematics  mete  the  path 
Whereby  the  spirit  seeks  its  goal  ? 

Can  Love  of  aught  but  Love  inherit 
The  blessing  which  is  born  of  Love  ? 

The  spirit  knoweth  of  the  spirit : 
The  soul  alone  the  soul  can  prove. 

The  eye  to  see  :  the  ear  to  hear  : 
The  working  hand  to  help  the  will : 

To  every  sense  his  separate  sphere  : 
And  unto  each  his  several  skill. 

The  ear  to  sight,  the  eye  to  sound, 
Is  callous  :  unto  each  is  given 

His  lorddom  in  his  proper  bound. 
The  soul,  the  soul  to  find  out  heaven  ! 

There  is  a  glory  veiled  to  sight ; 

A  voice  which  never  ear  hath  heard  ; 
There  is  a  law  no  hand  can  write, 

Yet  stronger  than  the  written  word. 

And  hast  thou  tidings  for  my  soul, 
0  teacher  ?  to  my  soul  intrust 

Alone  the  purport  of  thy  scroll  : 
Or  vex  me  not  with  learned  dust. 
17 


A  PSALM  OF  CONFESSION. 

FULL  soon  doth  Sorrow  make  her  cove- 
nant 
With  Life  ;  and  leave  her  shadow  in 

the  door : 
And  all  those  future  days,  for  which  we 

pant, 
Do  come  in  mourning  for  the  days  of 

yore. 
Still  through  the  world  gleams  Memory 

seeking  Love, 
Pale  as  the  torch  which  grieving  Ceres 

bore, 

Seeking  Proserpina,  on  that  dark  shore 
Where  only  phantoms  through  the  twi- 
light move. 

The  more  we  change,  the  more  is  all  the 

same, 

Our  last  grief  was  a  tale  of  other  years 
Quite  outworn,  till  to  our  own(hearts  it 

came. 
Wishes  are  pilgrims  to   the  Vale  of 

Tears. 

Our  brightest  joys  are  but  as  airy  shapes 
Of  cloud,  that  fade  on  evening's  glim- 
mering slope  ; 

And  disappointment  hawks  the  hover- 
ing hope 
Forever  pecking  at  the  painted  grapes. 

Why  can   we  not  one  moment  pause, 

and  cherish 
Love,  though  love  turn  to  tears  ?  or 

for  hope's  sake 
Bless  hope,  albeit  the  thing  we  hope  may 

perish  ? 
For   happiness    is    not    in   what   we 

take, 
But  what  we  give.     What  matter  though 

the  thing 
We  cling  to    most    should   fail  us  ? 

dust  to  dust, 
It  is  the  feeling  for  the  thing,  —  the 

trust 

In  beauty  somewhere,   to   which  souls 
should  cling. 

My  youth  has  failed,  if  failure  lies  in 

aught 
The  warm  heart  dreams,  or  which  the 

working  hand 
Is  set  to  do.     I  have  failed  in  aidless 

thought, 

And  steadfast  purpose,   and  in 
command. 


258 


THE  WANDERER. 


I  have  failed  in  hope,  in  health,  in  love  : 

failed  in  the  word, 
And  in  the  deed  too   I  have  failed. 

Ah  yet, 
Albeit  with  eyes  from  recent  weepings 

wet, 

Sing  thou,  my  Soul,  thy  psalm  unto  the 
Lord! 

The    burthen    of    the    desert   and    the 

sea  ! 

The  burthen  of  the  vision  in  the  vale  ! 
My  threshing-floor,  my  threshing-floor  ! 

•ah  me, 
Thy  wind  hath  strewn  my  corn,  and 

spoiled  the  flail  ! 

The  burthen  of  Dumah  and  of  Dedanim  ! 
What  of  the  night,  0  watchman,  of 

the  night  ? 
The  glory  of  Kedar  faileth :  and  the 

might 
Of  mighty  men  is  minished  and  dim. 

The  morning  cometh,  and  the  night,  he 

cries. 
The  watchman  cries  the  morning,  too, 

is  nigher. 
And,  if  ye  would  inquire,  lift  up  your 

eyes, 

Inquire  of  the  Lord,  return,  inquire  ! 
I   stand   upon  the  watchtower  all  day 

long: 
And  all  the  night  long  I  am  set  in 

ward. 
Is  it  thy  feet  upon   the  mountains, 

Lord? 

I  sing  against  the  darkness  :  hear  my 
song  ! 

The  majesty  of  Kedar  hath  been  spoiled  : 
Bound  are  the  arrows  :  broken  is  the 

bow. 
I  come  before  the  Lord  with  garments 

soiled. 

The  nshes  of  my  life  are  on  my  brow. 
Take  thou  thy  harp,  and  go  arxJut  the 

city. 
0  daughter  of  Desire,  with  garments 

torn : 
Sing  many  songs,  make  melody,  and 

mourn, 

That  thou  may'st  be  remembered  unto 
pity. 

Just,  awful  Cod  !  here  at  thy  feet  I  lay 
My    life'*    most     precious    offering : 
dearly  bought, 


Thou  knowest  with  what  toil  by  night 

and  day  : 
Thou  knowest  the  pain,  the  passion, 

and  the  thought. 
I  bring  thee  my  youth's  failure.     I  have 

spent 

My  youth  upon  it.     All  I  have  is  here. 
Were  it  worth  all  it  is  not,  price  more 

dear 
Could  I  have  paid  for  its  accomplishment  ? 

Yet  it  is  much.     If  I  could  say  to  thee, 
"Acquit  me,  Judge  ;  for  I  am  thus, 

and  thus  ; 
And  have  achieved  —  even  so  much," 

—  should  I  be 

Thus  wholly  fearless  and  impetuous 
To  rush  into  thy  presence  ?    I  might  weigh 
The  little  done  against  the  undone 

much : 
My  merit  with  thy  mercy  :    and,   as 

such, 
Haggle  with  pardon  for  a  price  to  pay. 

But  now  the  fulness  of  its  failure  makes 
My  spirit  fearless  ;  and  despair  grows 

bold. 
My  brow,  beneath  its  sad  self-knowledge, 

aches. 
Life's  presence  passes  Thine  a  thou. 

sand -fold 

In  contemplated  terror.     Can  I  lose 
Aught  by  that  desperate  temerity 
Which  leaves  no  choice  but  to  surren- 
der Thee 

My   life  without    condition  ?    Could   I 
choose 

A  stipulated  sentence,  I  might  ask 
For  ceded  dalliance  to  some  cherisht 

vice  : 

Or  half-remission  of  some  desperate  task  : 
Now,  all  I  have  is  hateful.     What  ia 

the  price  ? 
Speak,  Lord  !     I  hear  the  Fiend's  hand 

at  the  door. 
Hell's  slavery  or  heaven's  service  is  it 

the  choice  ? 
How  can  I  palter  with  the  terms  ?    0 

voice, 

Whence  do  I  hear  thee  ..."  Go  :  and 
sin  no  more  "  ? 

No  more,   no  more  ?     But   I  have  kist 

dead  white 

The   cheek   of    Vice.     No  more   th« 
harlot  hides 


PALINGENESIS. 


Her  loathsomeness  of  lineament  from  my 

sight. 

No  more  within  my  bosom  there  abides 
Her  poisoned  perfume.     O,  the  witch's 

mice 

Have  eat  her  scarlet  robe  and  diaper, 
And  she  fares  naked  !     Part  from  her 

—  from  her  ? 

Is  this  the  price,   0  Lord,  is  this  the 
price  ? 

Yet,  though  her  web  be  broken,  bonds, 

I  know, 
Slow  custom  frames  in  the  strong  forge 

of  time, 
Which  outlast  love,  and  will  not  wear 

with  woe,  . 
Nor  break  beneath  the  cognizance  of 

crime. 
The   witch  goes  bare.     But  he,  —  the 

father  fiend, 
That  roams  the  unthrifty  furrows  of 

my  days, 
Yet  walks  the    field  of   life ;    and, 

where  he  strays, 
The  husbandry   of  heaven   for  hell  is 


Lulls  are  there  in  man's  life  which  are 

not  peace. 
Tumults  which  are  not  triumphs.     Do 

I  take 

The  pause  of  passion  for  the  fiend's  de- 
cease ? 
This  frost  of  grief  hath  numbed  the 

drowsing  snake  ; 
Which  yet  may  wake,  and  sting  me  in 

the  heat 
Of  new  emotions.     What   shall  bar 

the  door 

Against  the  old  familiar,  that  of  yore 
Came  without  call,  and  sat  within  my 
seat  ? 

When  evening  brings  its  dim  grim  hour 

again, 
And  hell  lets  loose  its  dusky  brood 

awhile, 

Shall  I  not  find  him  in  the  darkness  then  ? 
The  same  subservient  and  yet  insolent 

smile  ? 

The  same  indifferent  ignominious  face  ? 
The  same  old  sense  of  household  hor- 
ror, come 
Like  a  tame  creature,  back  into  its 

home  ? 
Meeting  me,  haply,  in  my  wonted  place, 


With  the  loathed  freedom  of  an  unloved 

mate, 

Or  crouching  on  my  pillow  as  of  old  ? 

Knowing  I  hate  him,  impotent  in  hate  ! 

Therefore  more  subtle,  strenuous,  and 

bold. 

Thus  ancient  habit  will  usurp  young  will, 
And   each   new   effort   rivet   the   old 
thrall.  / 

No  matter  !   those  who  climb  must 

count  to  fall, 

But  each  new  fall  will  prove  them  climb- 
ing still. 

0  wretched  man  !  the  body  of  this  death 
Which,  groaning  in  the  spirit,  I  yet 

bear 

On  to  the  end  (so  that  I  breathe  the  breath 
Of  its  corruption,  even  though  breath- 
ing prayer), 
What  shall  take  from  me  ?     Must  I  drag 

forever 
The  cold  corpse  of  the  life  which  I 

have  killed 
But  cannot  bury  ?     Must  my  heart  be 

filled 

With  the  dry  dust  of  every  dead  en- 
deavor ? 

For  often,  at  the  mid  of  the  long  night, 
Some  devil  enters  into  the  dead  clay, 
And  gives  it  life  unnatural  in  my  sight. 
The  dead  man  rises  up  ;   and  roams 

away, 
Back  to  the  mouldered  mansions  of  the 

Past : 

And  lights  a  lurid  revel  in  the  halls 
Of  vacant  years  ;  and  lifts  his  voice, 

and  calls, 

Till  troops  of  phantoms  gather  round 
him  fast. 

Frail  gold-haired  corpses,  in  whose  eyes 

there  lives 
A  strange  regret  too  wild  to  let  them 

rest : 
Crowds  of  pale  maidens,  who  were  never 

wives 
And  infants  that  all  died  upon  the 

breast 
That  suckled  them.     And  these  make 

revelry 
Mingled  with  wailing  all  the  midnight 

through, 
Till  the  sad  day  doth  with  stern  light 

renew 
The  toiling  land,  and  the  complaining  sea. 


260 


THE  WANDERER. 


Full  well  I  know-that  in  tliis  world  of  ours 
The   dreadful  Commonplace   succeeds 

all  change  ; 

We  catch  at  times  a  gleam  of  il  yin<;  powers 
That  pass  in  storm  some  windy  moun- 
tain range : 
But,  while  we  gaze,  the  cloud  returns 

o'er  all. 
And  each,  to  guide  him  up  the  devious 

height, 
Must  take,  and  bless,  whatever  earthly 

light 

From  household  hearths,   or  shepherd 
fires,  may  fall. 

This  wave,  that  groans  and  writhes  upon 

the  beach, 

To-morrow  will  submit  itself  to  calm  ; 
That  wind  that  rushes,  moaning,  out  of 

reach, 
Will  die  anon  beneath  some  breathless 

palm  ; 
These  tears,  these  sighs,  these  motions 

of  the  soul, 

This  inexpressible  pining  of  the  mind, 
The  stem  indifferent  laws  of  life  shall 

bind, 
And  fix  forever  in  their  old  control. 

Behold  this  half- tamed  universe  of  things ! 
That  cannot  break,  nor  wholly  bear, 

its  chain. 
Its  heart  by  fits  grows  wild  :  it  leaps,  it 

springs ; 
Then  the  chain  galls,  and  kennels  it 

again. 

If  man  were  formed  with  all  his  faculties 
For  sorrow,  I  should  sorrow  for  him 

less. 

Considering  a  life  so  brief,  the  stress 
Of  its  short  passion  I  might  well  despise  : 

But  all  man's  faculties  are  for  delight ; 
But  all  man's  life,  is  compassed  with 

what  seems 
Framed  for  enjoyment :  but  from  all  that 

sight 
And   sense  reveal   a  magic  murmur 

streams 
Into  man's  heart,  which  says,  or  seems 

to  say, 
"  Be  happy  !  "  .  .  .  and  the  heart  of 

man  replies, 
"  Leave  happiness  to  brutes  :  I  would 

be  wise  : 

Give  me,  not  peace,  but  science,  glory, 
art" 


Therefore,  ago,  sickness,  and  mortality 

Are  but  the  lightest  portion  of  his  pain  : 

Therefore,  shutout  from  joy,  in'-e.s.yuntlv 

Death  finds  him  toiling  at  a  task  that  "s 

vain. 

I  weep  the  want  of  all  he  pines  to  have  : 
I  weep  the  loss  of  all  he  leaves  be- 
hind :  — 
Contentment,  and  repose,  and  peace 

of  mind, 
Pawned  for  the  purchase  of  a  little  grave  : 

I  weep  the  hundred  centuries  of  time  ; 
I  weep  the  millions  that  have  squan- 
dered them 

In  error,  doubt,  anxiety,  and  crime, 
Here,  where  the  free  birds  sing  from 

leaf  and  stem  : 
I  weep  .  .  .  but  what  are  tears  ?     What 

I  deplore 

I  knew  not,  half  a  hundred  years  ago  : 
And  half  a  hundred  years  from  hence, 

I  know 

That  what  I  weep  for  I  shall  know  no 
more. 

The  spirit  of  that  wide  and  leafless  wind 
That  wanders  o'er  the  uncompanioned 

sea, 

Searching  for  what  it  never  seems  to  find, 
Stirred   in  my  hair,  and  moved  my 

'heart  in  me, 

To  follow  it,  far  over  land  and  main  : 
And    everywhere    over    this    earth's 

scarred  face 
The  footsteps  of  a  God  I  seemed  to 

trace  ; 
But  everywhere  steps  ol  a  God  in  pain. 

If,  haply,  he  that  made  this  heart  of 

mine, 
Himself  in  sorrow  walked  the  world 

erewhile, 
What  then  am  I,  to  marvel  or  repine 

That  I  go  mourning  ever  in  the  smile 
Of  universal  nature,  searching  ever 
The  phantom  of  a  joy  which  here  I 

miss? 
My  heart  inhabits  other  worlds  than 

this, 

Therefore  my  search  is  here  a  vain  en- 
deavor. 

Methought,  ...  (it  was  the  midnight  of 

my  soul, 

Dead  midnight)  that  I  stood  on  Cal- 
vary : 


PALINGENESIS. 


261 


I  found  the  cross,  but  not  the  Christ. 

The  whole 

Of  heaven  was  dark  :  and  I  went  bit- 
terly 
Weeping,    because    I    found    him    not. 

Methought,  .  .  . 
(It  was  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  and 

mist) 

I  stood  before  the  sepulchre  of  Christ : 
The  sepulchre  was  vacant,  void  of  aught 

Saving  the  cere-clothes  of  the  grave, 

which  were 

Upfolden  straight  and  empty  :  bitterly 

"Weeping  I  stood,  because  not  even  there 

I   found  him.     Then   a  voice   spake 

unto  me, 
"  Whom    seekest   thou  ?    Why  is  thy 

heart  dismayed  ? 

Jesus  of  Nazareth,  he  is  not  here  : 
Behold,    the    Lord   is   risen.     Be   of 

cheer  : 

Approach,   behold  the   place  where  he 
was  laid." 

And  while  he  spake,  the  sunrise  smote 

the  world. 
"  Go  forth,  and  tell  thy  brethren," 

spake  the  voice  ; 

"The   Lord  is   risen."     Suddenly  un- 
furled, 

The  whole  unclouded  Orient  did  re- 
joice 
In  glory.     Wherefore  should  I  mourn 

that  here 
My  heart  feels  vacant  of  what  most  it 

needs  ? 
Christ  is  arisen  !  .  .  .  the  cere-clothes 

and  the  weeds 

That  wrapped  him  lying  in  this  sepul- 
chre 

Of  earth,    he   hath   abandoned  ;   being 

gone 
Back  into  heaven,  where  we  too  must 

turn 
Our  gaze  to  find  him.     Pour,   0  risen 

Sun 
Of  Righteousness,  the  light  for  which 

I  yearn 

Upon  the  darkness  of  this  mortal  hour, 
This  tract  of  night  in  which  I  walk 

forlorn : 
Behold  the  night  is  now  far  spent. 

The  morn 

Breaks,  breaking  from  afar  through  a 
night  shower. 


REQUIESCAT. 

I  SOUGHT  to  build  a  deathless  monument 
To  my  dead  love.     Therein  I  meant 

to  place 
All  precious  things,  and  rare  :  as  Nature 

blent 
All  single   sweetnesses  in  one  sweet 

face. 
I  could  not  build  it  worthy  her  mute 

merit, 
Nor  worthy  her  white  brows  and  holy 

eyes, 
Nor  worthy  of  her  perfect  and  pure  spirit, 

Nor  of  my  own  immortal  memories. 
But,  as  some  rapt  artificer  of  old, 

To  enshrine  the  ashes  of  a  virgin  saint, 
Might  scheme  to  work  with  ivory,  and 

fine  gold, 
And  carven  gems,  and  legended  and 

quaint 

Seraphic  heraldries  ;  searching  far  lands, 

Orient  and  Occident,  for  all  things  rare, 

To  consecrate  the  toil  of  reverent  hands, 

And  make  his  labor,  like  her  virtue, 

fair  ; 
Knowing  no  beauty  beautiful  as  she, 

And  all  his  labor  void,  but  to  beguile 
A  sacred  sorrow  ;  so  I  worked.  Ah,  see 
•  Here  are  the  fragments  of  my  shattered 

pile  ! 
I  keep  them,  and  the  flowers  that  sprang 

between 

Their  broken  workmanship  — the  flow- 
ers and  weeds  ! 
Sleep    soft    among   the  violets,   0   my 

Queen,  — 

Lie  calm  among  my  ruined  thoughts 
and  deeds. 


EPILOGUE. 

PART  I. 

CHANGE  without  term,  and  strife  without 

result, 
Persons  that  pass,  and  shadows  that 

remain, 

One  strange,  impenetrable,  and  occult 
Suggestion  of  a  hope,  that 's  hoped  in 

vain, 
Behold  the  world  man  reigns  in  !     His 

delight 

Deceives ;    his    power   fatigues ;    hia 
strength  is  brief; 


262 


THE  WANDERER. 


i:\vn  his  religion  presupposes  grief, 
His  morning  is  not  certain  of  the  night. 

I  have  beheld,  without  regret,  the  trunk, 
Which   propped  three  hundred  sum- 
mers on  its  boughs, 
Which  housed,  of  old,  the  merry  bird, 

and  drunk 

The  divine  dews  of  air,  and  gave  ca- 
rouse 

To  the  free  winds  of  heaven,  lie  over- 
thrown 
Amidst  the  trees  which  its  own  fruitage 

bore. 

Its  promise  is  fulfilled.     It  is  no  more, 
But  it  hath  been.     Its  destiny  is  done. 

But  the  wild  ash,  that  springs  above  the 

marsh  ! 

Strong  and  superb  it  rises  o'er  the  wild. 
Vain  energy  of  being  !     For  the  harsh 
And  fetid  ooze  already  hath  defiled 
The  roots  whose  sap  it  lives  by.     Heaven 

doth  give 
No  blessing  to  its  boughs.     The  humid 

wind 
Rots  them.     The  vapors  warp  them. 

All  declined, 

Its  life  hath  ceased,  ere  it  hath  ceased  to 
live. 

Child  of  the  waste,  and  nursling  of  the 

pest ! 
A   kindred    fate   hath    watched  and 

wept  thine  own. 

Thine  epitaph  is  written  in  my  breast. 
Years  change.     Day  treads  out  day. 

For  me  alone 
Xo  change  is  nurst  within  the  brooding 

bud. 

Satiety  I  have  not  known,  and  yet, 

I  wither  in  the  void  of  life,  and  fret 

A  futile  time,  with  an  unpeaceful  blood. 

The  days  are  all  too  long,  the  nights  too 

fair, 

And  too  much  redness  satiates  the  rose. 

0  blissful  season  !  blest  and  balmy  air  ! 

Waves  !  moonlight  !  silence  !  years  of 

lost  repose  ! 
Bowers  and  shades  that  echoed  to  the 

tread 
Of  young  Romance  !  birds  that,  from 

woodland  bars, 

Sang,  serenading  forth  the  timid  stars  ! 
Youth  !   beauty  !   passion  !  whither  are 
ye  fled? 


I  wait,  and  long  have  waited,  and  yet  wait 
Tin'  ((lining  of  the  footsteps  which  ye 

told 
My  heart  to  watch  for.     Yet  the  hour 

is  late, 
And  ye  have  left  me.     Did  they  lie,  of 

old, 

Your  thousand  voices  prophesying  bliss  ? 
That  troubled  all  the  current  of  a  fate 
Which  else  might  have  been  peaceful ! 

I  await 

The  thing  I  have  not  found,  yet  would 
not  miss. 

To  face  out  childhood,  and  grow  up  to 

man, 
To  make  a  noise,  and  question  all  one 

sees, 

The  astral  orbit  of  a  world  to  span, 
And,  after  a  few  days,  to  take  one's 

ease 
Under  the  graveyard  grasses,  —  this,  my 

friend, 
Appears  to  me  a  thing  too  strange  but 

what 
I  wish  to  know  its  meaning.     I  would 

not 
Depart  before  I  have  perceived  the  end. 

And  I  would  know  what,  here  below  the 

sun, 
He  is,  and  what  his  place,  that  being 

which  seems 
The  end  of  all  means,  yet  the  means  of 

none  ; 
Who  searches  and  combines,  aspires 

and  dreams  ; 
Seeking  new  things  with  ever  the  same 

hope, 
Seeking  new  hopes  in  ever  the  same 

thing  ; 

A  king  without  the  powers  of  a  king, 
A  beggar  with  a  kingdom  in  his  scope  ; 

Who  only  sees  in  what  he  hath  attained 
The  means  whereby  he  may  attain  to 

more  ; 
Who  only  finds  in  that  which  he  hath 

gained 

The  want  of  what  he  did  not  want  be- 
fore ; 
Whom   weakness  strengthens  ;   who  is 

soothed  by  strife ; 

Who  seeks  new  joys  to  prize  the  ab- 
sent most  ; 

Still  from  illusion  to  illusion  tost, 
Himself  the  great  illusion  of  his  life  ! 


PALINGENESIS. 


263 


Why  is  it,  all  deep  emotion  makes  us  sigh 
To   quit    this  world  ?    What    better 

thing  than  death 

Can  follow  after  rapture  ?    ' '  Let  us  die !  " 
This  is  the  last  wish  on  the  lover's 

breath. 
If  thou  wouldst  live,  content  thee.     To 

enjoy 

Is  to  begin  to  perish.     What  is  bliss, 
But  transit  to  some  other  state  from 

this? 

That  which  we  live  for  must  our  life 
destroy. 

Hast  thou  not  ever  longed  for  death  ?    If 

not, 

Not  yet  thy  life's  experience  is  at- 
tained. 

But  if  thy  days  be  favored,  if  thy  lot 
Be  easy,  if  hope's  summit  thou  hast 

gained, 
Die  !     Death  is  the  sole  future  left  to 

thee. 
The  knowledge  of  this  life  is  bound, 

for  each, 

By  his  own  powers.     Death  lies  be- 
tween our  reach 

And  all  which,  living,  we  have  lived  to 
be. 

Death  is  no  evil,  since  it  comes  to  all. 

For  evil  is  the  exception,  not  the  law. 

What  is  it  in  the  tempest  that  doth  call 

Our  spirits  down  its  pathways  ?  or  the 

awe 

Of  that  abyss  and  solitude  beneath 
High  mountain  passes,   which   doth 

aye  attract 

Such  strange  desire  ?  or  in  the  cata- 
ract? 
^he  sea  ?    It  is  the  sentiment  of  death. 

If  life  no  more  than  a  mere  seeming  be, 

Away  with  the  imposture  !  If  it  tend 
To  nothing,  and  to  have  lived  seemingly 

Prove  to  be  vain  and  futile  in  the  end, 
Then  let  us  die,  that  we  may  really  live, 

Or  cease  to  feign  to   live.     Let  us 
possess 

Lasting  delight,  or  lasting  quietness. 
What  life  desires,  death,  only  death,  can 
give. 

Where  are  the  violets  of  vanisht  years  ? 
The  sunsets  Rachel  watched   by  La- 
ban's  well  ? 


Where  is  Fidele's  face  ?  where  Juliet's 

tears  ? 
There   comes   no  answer.      There  is 

none  to  tell 
What  we  go  questioning,  till  our  mouths 

are  stopt 

By  a  clod  of  earth.     Ask  of  the  plan- 
gent sea, 
The  wild  wind  wailing   through   the 

leafless  tree, 

Ask  of  the   meteor  from  the  midnight 
dropt ! 

Come,  Death,  and  bring  the  beauty  back 

to  all! 

I  do  not  seek  thee,  but  I  will  not  shun. 
And  let  thy  coming  be.  at  even-fall, 
Thy  pathway  through  the  setting  of 

the  sun. 

And  let  us  go  together,  I  with  thee, 
What  time  the  lamps  in  Eden  bowers 

are  lit, 

And  Melancholy,  all  alone,  doth  sit 
By  the  wide  marge  of  some  neglected  sea. 


PART  II. 

ONE  hour  of  English  twilight  once  again ! 

Lo  !  in  the  rosy  regions  of  the  dew 
The  confines  of  the  world  begin  to  wane, 
And  Hesper  doth  his  trembling  lamp 

renew. 

Now  is  the  inauguration  of  the  night  ! 
Nature's  release  to  wearied  earth  and 

skies  ! 
Sweet  truce  of  Care  !     Labor's  brief 

armistice  ! 

Best,   loveliest  interlude  of   dark  and 
light! 

The  rookery,  babbling  in   the    sunken 

wood  ; 

The  watchdog,  barking  from  the  dis- 
tant farm, 
The  dim  light  fading  from  the  horned 

flood, 
That  winds  the  woodland  in  its  silver 

arm  ; 
The  massed  and  immemorial  oaks,  whose 

leaves 

Are  husht  in  yonder  heathy  dells  be- 
low ; 
The  fragrance  of  the  meadows  that  I 

know  ; 

The  bat,  that   now  his  wavering  circle 
weaves 


264 


T1IK   WANDEKER. 


Around  these  antique  towers,  and  case- 
ments deep 
That  glimmer,  through   the   ivy  and 

the  rose, 
To  the  faint  moon,  which  doth  begin  to 

creep 
Out  of  the  inmost  heart  o'  the  heavens' 

repose, 
To   wander,  all   night  vlong,  without  a 

sound, 
Above  the  fields  my  feet  oft  wandered 

once ; 
The  larches  tall  and  dark,  which  do 

ensconce 

The  little  churchyard,  in  whose  hallowed 
ground 

Sleep  half  the  simple  friends  my  child- 
hood knew : 
All,  all  the  sounds  and  sights  of  this 

blest  hour, 
Sinking  within  my  heart  of  hearts,  like 

dew, 

Revive  that  so  long  parcht  and  droop- 
ing flower 
Of  youth,   the  world's  hot   breath   for 

many  years 
Hath  burned  and  withered  ;  till  once 

more,  once  more, 

The  revelation  and  the  dream  of  yore 
Return   to  solace   these  sad   eyes  with 
tears  ! 

Where  now,  alone,  a  solitary  man, 
I  pace  once  more  the  pathways  of  my 

home, 
Light-hearted,    and   together,    once  we 

ran, 
1,  and  the  infant  guide  that  used  to 

roam 
With  me,  the  meads  and  meadow-banks 

among, 
At  dusk  and  dawn.     How  light  those 

little  feet 
Danced   through    the    dancing  grass 

and  waving  wheat, 

Where'er,  far  off,  we  heard  the  cuckoo's 
song  ! 

I  know  now,  little  Ella,  what  the  flow- 
ers 
Said  to  you  then,  to  make  your  cheek 

so  pale  ; 
And  why  the  blackbird  in   our  laurel 

bowers 

Spake  to  you,   only ;  and  the   poor, 
pink  snail 


Feared  less  your  steps  than  those  of  tlie 

May-shower. 
It   was   not   strange   these    creatures 

loved  you  so, 
And  told  you  all.     T  was  not  so  Ion;,' 

ago 

You  were,   yourself,  a  bird,   or  <ls.    :i 
flower. 

And,  little  Ella,  you  were  pale,  l/< 
So  soon  you  were  to  die.     I  know  tlmt 

now. 
And  why  there  ever  seemed  a  sort  of 

gauze 
Over  your  deep  blue  eyes,   and   sad 

young  brow. 
You  were  too'-good  to  grow  up,   Ella, 

you, 
And    be   a   woman    such   as   I   have 

known ! 
And  so  upon  your  heart  they  put  a 

stone, 

And  left  you,  dear,  amongst  the  flowers 
and  dew. 

God's  will   is  good.      He  knew  what 

would  be  best. 
I  will  not   weep   thee,   darling,    any 

more ; 
I  have  not  wept  thee  ;  though  my  heart, 

opprest 
With  many  memories,  for  thy  sake  is 

sore. 
God's  will  is  good,  and  great  His  wisdom 

is. 
Thou  wast  a  little  star,  and  thou  didst 

shine 
Upon  my  cradle  ;   but  thou  wast  not 

mine, 

Thou  wast  not  mine,  my  darling ;  thou 
art  His. 

My  morning  star  !    twin  sister  of  my 

soul  ! 

My  little  elfin  friend  from  Fairy-Land  ! 
Whose  memory  is  yet  innocent  of  the 

whole 
Of  that  which  makes  me  doubly  need 

thy  hand, 

Thy  little  guiding  hand  so  soon  with- 
drawn ! 
Here  where   I  find   so  little   like  to 

thee. 
For  thou  wert  as  the  breath  of  dawn 

to  me, 

Starry,   and  pure,   and  brief  as  is  the 
dawn. 


PALINGENESIS. 


265 


Thy  knight  was  I,  and  thou  ray  Fairy 

Queen. 

('T  was  in  the  days  of  love  and  chiv- 
alry !) 
And  thou  didst  hide  thee  in  a  bower  of 

green. 
But  thou  so  well  hast  hidden  thee, 

that  I 
Have  never  found  thee  since.    And  thou 

didst  set 
Many  a  task,   and   quest,   and  high 

emprise, 
Ere  I  should  win  my  guerdon  from 

thine  eyes, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  that  not  yet 

My  tasks  are  ended  or  my  wanderings 

o'er. 
But  some  clay  thou  wilt  send  across 

the  main 
A  magic   bark,   and   I  shall  quit  this 

shore 
Of  care,  and  find  thee,  in  thy  bower, 

again  ; 
And  thou  wilt  say,  "My  brother,  hast 

thou  found 
Our  home,  at  last  ? "  .  .  .  Whilst  I,  in 

answer,  Sweet, 
Shall  heap  my  life's  last  booty  at  thy 

feet, 

And  bare  my  breast  with  many  p,  bleed- 
ing wound. 

The  spoils  of  time  !  the  trophies  of  the 

world  ! 
The   keys   of  conquered  towns,    and 

captived  kings ; 
And  many  a  broken  sword,  and  banner 

furled ; 
The  heads  of  giants,  and  swart  Soldan's 

rings ; 
And  many  a  maiden's  scarf ;  and  many 

a  wand 

Of  baffled  wizard  ;  many  an  amulet ; 
And  many  a  shield,  with  mine  own 

heart's  blood  wet ; 

And  jewels,  dear,  from  many  a  distant 
land! 

God's  will  is  good.      He  knew  what 

would  be  best. 
I  thought  last  year  to  pass  away  from 

life. 
I  thought  my  toils  were  ended,  and  my 

quest 

Completed,  and  my  part  in  this  world's 
strife 


Accomplish^.     And,  behold  !  about  me 

now 
There  rest  the  gloom,  the  glory,  and 

the  awe 

Of  a  new  martyrdom,  no  dreams  fore- 
saw ; 

And  the  thorn-crown  hath  blossomed  on 
my  brow. 

A  martyrdom,  but  with  a  martyr's  joy ! 

A  hope  I  never  hoped  for  !  and  a  sense 
That  nothing  henceforth  ever  can  de- 
stroy :  — 

Within  my  breast  the  serene  confidence 
Of  mercy  in  the  misery  of  things  ; 

Of  meaning  in  the  mystery  of  all ; 

Of  blessing  in  whatever  may  befall ; 
Of  rest  predestined  to  all  wanderings. 

How  sweet,  with  thee,  my  sister,  to  renew, 
In  lands  of  light,  the  search  for  those 

bright  birds 

Of  plumage  so  ethereal  in  its  hue, 
And  music  sweeter  than   all   mortal 

words, 
Which  some  good  angel  to  our  childhood 

sent 

With  messages  from  Paradisal  flowers, 
So  lately  left,  the  scent  of  Eden  bowers 
Yet  lingered  in  our  hair,  where'er  we 
went ! 

Now,  they  are  all  fled  by,  this  many  a 

year, 

Adown  theviewlessvalleys  of  the  wind, 

And  never  more  will  cross  this  hemisphere, 

Those  birds  of  passage  !     Never  shall 

I  find, 
Dropt  from  the  flight,  you  followed,  dear. 

so  far 

That  you  will  never  come  again,  I  know, 
One  .plumelet  on  the  paths  by  which 

I  go, 

Missing  thy  light  there,  0  my  morning 
star! 

Soft,  over  all,  doth  ancient  twilight  cast 
Her  dim  gray  robe,  vague  as  futurity, 
And  sad  and  hoary  as  the  ghostly  past, 

Till  earth  assumes  invisibility. 
I  hear  the  night-bird's  note,  wherewith 

she  starts 
The  bee  within  the  blossom  from  his 

dream. 
A  light,  like  hope,  from  yonder  pane 

doth  beam, 
And  now,  like  hope,  it  silently  departs. 


266 


THK   WANDERER. 


Hush  !  from  the  clock  within  yon  dark 

church  spire, 
Another  hour  broke,  clanging,  out  of 

time, 
And  passed  me,  throbbing  like  my  own 

desire, 
Into  the  seven-fold  heavens.  And  now, 

the  chime 
Over  the  vale,  the  woodland,  and  the 

river, 
More  faint,  more  far,  a  quivering  echo, 

strays 
From  that  small  twelve-houred  circle 

of  our  days, 

And  spreads,  and  spreads,  to  the  great 
round  Forever. 

Pensive,  the  sombre  ivied  porch  I  pass. 
Through  the  dark  hall,  the  sound  of 

my  own  feet 
Pursues  me,  like  the  ghost  of  what  I 

was, 
Into  this  silent   chamber,   where    I 

meet 
From  wall  to  wall  the  fathers  of  my 

.race  ; 
The  pictures  of  the  past  from  wall  to 

wall ; 
Wandering    o'er   which,   my  wistful 

glances  fall, 
To  sink,  at  last,  on  little  Ella's  face. 

This  is  my  home.     And  hither  I  re- 
turn, 
After  much  wandering  in  the  ways  of 

men, 
Weary  but  not  outworn.      Here,  with 

her  urn 

Shall  Memory  come,  and  be  my  deni- 
zen. 
And  b"lue-eyed  Hope  shall  through  the 

window  look, 
And  lean  her  fair  child's  face  into  the 

room, 
What  time  the  hawthorn  buds  anew, 

and  bloom 

The  bright  forget-me-nots  beside    the 
brook. 

Father    of   all  which  is,   or  yet  may 

be, 
Ere  to  the  pillow  which  my  childhood 

prest  * 

This  night  restores  my  troubled  brows, 

by  Thee 

May  this,    the  last  prayer   I    have 
learned,  be  blest ! 


Grant  me  to  live  that  I  may  need  from 

life 
No  more  than  life  hath  given  me,  and 

to  die 
That   I   may  give  to  death  no  more 

than  I 

Have  long  abandoned.     And,  if  toil  and 
stnfe 

Yet  in  the  portion  of  my  days  must  be, 
Firm  be  my  faith,  and  quiet  be  my 
heart ! 


And  strength  be  mine  to  calmly  nil  my 

part 
In  Nature's  purpose,  questioning  not  the 

end. 
For  love  is  more  than  raiment  or  than 

food. 

Shall  I  not  take  the  evil  with  the  good  ? 
Blessed  to  me  be  all  which  thou  dost 
send ! 

Nor  blest  the  least,  recalling  what  hath 

been, 

The  knowledge  of  the  evil  I  have  known 
Without  me,  and  within  me.     Since,  to 

lean 
Upon  a  strength  far  mightier  than  my 

own 
Such  knowledge  brought  me.     In  whose 

strength  I  stand, 
Firmly  upheld,  even  though,  in  ruin 

hurled, 
The  fixed  foundations  of  this  rolling 

world 
Should  topple  at  the  waving  of  Thy  hand. 


PART  III. 

HAIL  thou  !  sole  Muse  that,  in  an  age  of 

toil, 

Of  all  the  old  Uranian  sisterhood, 
Art  left  to  light  us  o'er  the  furrowed  soil 
Of  this  laborious  star  !     Muse,  unsub- 
dued 
By  that  strong  hand  which  hath  in  min 

razed 
The  temples  of  dread  Jove  !    Muse 

most  divine, 

Albeit  but  ill  by  these  pale  lips  of  mine, 
In  days   degenerate,    first   named   and 
praised ! 

Now  the  high  airy  kingdoms  of  the  day 
Hyperion  holds  not.     The  disloyal  seas 


PALINGENESIS. 


267 


Have    broken   from    Poseidon's    purple 

sway. 
Through  Heaven's  harmonious  golden 

palaces 

No  more  the  silver-sandalled  messengers 
Slide  to  sweet  airs.     Upon  Olympus' 

brow 

The  gods'  great  citadel  is  vacant  now. 
And  not  a  lute  to  Love  in  Lesbos  stirs. 

But  thou  wert  born  not  on  the  Forked  Hill, 
Nor  fed  from  Hybla's  hives  by  Attic 

bees, 

Nor  on  the  honey  Cretan  oaks  distil, 
Or  once  distilled,  when  gods  had  homes 

in  trees, 
And  young  Apollo  knew  thee  not.     Yet 

thou 
With  Ceres  wast,  when  the  pale  mother 

trod 

The  gloomy  pathway  to  the  nether  god, 
And  spake  with  that  dim  Power  which 
dwells  below 

The  surface  of  whatever,  where  he  wends, 

The  circling  sun  illumineth.    And  thou 

Wast  aye  a  friend  to  man.     Of  all  his 

friends, 
Perchance  the  friend  most  needed : 

needed  now 

Yet  more  than  ever  ;  in  a  complex  age 
Which  changes  while  we  gaze  at  it : 

from  heaven 
Seeking  a  sign,  and  finding  no  sign 

given, 

And  questioning   Life's   worn   book  at 
every  page. 

Nor  ever  yet,  was  song,   untaxight  by 

thee, 

Worthy  to  live  immortally  with  man. 
Wherefore,  divine  Experience,  bend  on 

me 
Thy  deep  and  searching  eyes.     Since 

life  began, 
Meek  at  thy  mighty  knees,  though  oft 

reproved, 
I  have  sat,  spelling  out  slow  time  with 

tears, 
Where  down  the  riddling  alphabet  of 

years 

Thy  guiding  finger  o'er  the  horn-book 
moved. 

And  I  have  put  together  many  names : 
Sorrow,  and  Joy,  and  Hope,  and  Mem- 
ory, 


And   Love,   and  Anger ;   as   an   infant 

frames 

The  initials  of  a  language  wherein  he 
In  manhood  must  with  men  communi- 
cate. 

And  oft,  the  words  were  hard  to  un- 
derstand, 

Harder  to  utter  ;  still  the  solemn  hand 
Would  pause,  and  point,  and  wait,  and 
move,  and  wait ; 

Till  words  grew  into  language.     Lan- 
guage grew 
To  utterance.     Utterance  into  music 


I  sang  of  all  I  learned,  and  all  I  knew. 
And,  looking  upward  in  thy  face,  at 

last, 

Beheld  it  flusht,  ;fc  when  a  mother  hears 
Her   infant   feebly   singing   his   first 

hymn, 
And  dreams  she  sees,  albeit  unseen  of 

him, 

Some  radiant  listener  lured  from  other 
spheres. 

Such  songs  have  been  my  solace  many  a 

while 

And  oft,  when  other  solace  I  had  none, 
From  grief  which  lay  heart-broken  on  a 

smile, 
And  joy  that  glittered  like  a  winter 

sun, 
And  froze,  and  fevered  :  from  the  great 

man's  scorn, 

The  mean  man's  envy ;   friends'  un- 
friendliness ; 
Love's  want  of  human  kindness,  and 

the  stress 

Of  nights  that  hoped  for  nothing  from 
the  morn. 

From  these,  and  worse  than  these,  did 

song  unbar 
A  refuge  through  the  ivory  gate  of 

dreams, 
Wherein  my  spirit  grew  familiar 

With  spirits  that  glide  by  spiritual 

streams ; 
Song  hath,  for  me,  unsealed  the  genii 

sleeping 
Under  mid  seas,  and  lured  out  of  their 

lair 

Beings  with  wondering  eyes,  and  won- 
drous hair, 

Tame    to    my  feet    at    twilight  softly 
creeping. 


268 


THE  WANDERER. 


And  song  hath  been  my  cymbal  in  the 

boon 
Of  triumph ;   when   behind   me,    far 

away, 
!  'ijyjit,  with  its  plagues ;   and,  by 

.strange  powers, 
Not  mine,  upheld,  life's  heaped  ocean 

lay 

On  either  side  a  passage  for  my  soul. 
A  passage  to  the  Land  of  Promise  ! 

trod 
By  giants,  where  the  chosen  race  of 

God 

Shall  find,  at  last,  its  long  predestined 
goal. 

The  breath  whicli  stirred  these  songs  a 

little  while 
Has  fleeted  by  ;  and,  with  it,  fleeted 

too 

The  days  I  sought,  thus  singing,  to  be- 
guile 
Of  thoughts  that  spring  like  weeds, 

which  will  creep  through 
The  blank  interstices  of  ruined  fanes, 
"Where  Youth,   adoring,   sacrificed  — 

its  heart, 
To  gods  forever  fallen. 

Now,  we  part, 

My  songs  and  I.     We  part,  and  what 
remains  ? 

Perchance  an  echo,  and  perchance  no 

more, 

Harp  of  my  heart,  from  thy  brief  mu- 
sic dwells 
In  hearts,  unknown,  afar :  as  the  wide 

shore 
Retains   within    its   hundred   hollow 

shells 

The  voicps  of  the  spirits  of  the  foam, 
Which  murmun  in  the  language  of  the 

deeps, 
Though  haply  far  away,  to  one  who 

keepa 

Such  ocean  wealth  to  grace  an  inland 
home. 

Within  these,  cells  of  song,  how  frail  so- 

e'er, 
The  vnst  and  wandering  tides  of  human 

life 

Have  murmured  once  ;  and  left,  in  pass- 
ing, there, 
Faint  er-lioes  of  the  tumult  and  the 

strife 
Of  the  great  ocean  of  humanity. 


Fairies  have  danced  within  these  hol- 

low caves, 
And  Memory  mused  above  the  moonlit 

waves, 
And  Youth,  the  lover,  here  hath  lingered 


I  sung  of  life,  as  life  would  have  me  sing, 

Of  falsehood,  and  of  evil,  and  of  wrong; 

For  many  a  false,    and   many   an   evil 

thing, 
I  found  in  life;  and  by  my  life  my 

song 
Was  shaped  within  me  while  I  sung  :  I 

sung 
Of  Good,  for  good  is  life's  predestined 

end  ; 

Of  Sorrow,  for  I  knew  her  as  my  friend  ; 
Of  Love,  for  by  his  hand  my  harp  was 
strung. 

I  have  not  scrawled  above  the  tomb  of 

Youth 

Those  lying  epitaphs,  which  represent 
All   virtues,    and    all    excellence,    save 

truth. 
'Twere  easy,  thus,  to  have  been  elo- 

quent, 

If  I  had  held  the  fashion  of  the  age 
Which  loves  to  hear  its  sounding  flat- 

tery 
Blown  by  all  dusty  winds  from  sky  to 

sky, 
And  find  its  praises  blotting  every  page. 

And  yet,  the  Poet  and  the  Age  are  one. 
And  if   the  age   be   flawed,   howe'er 

minute, 
Deep  through  the  poet's  heart  that  rent 

doth  run, 
And  shakes  and  mars  the  music  of  his 

lute. 

It  is  not  that  his  sympathy  is  less 
With  all  that  lives  and  all  that  feels 

around  him, 
But  that  so  close   a  sympathy  hath 

bound  him 

To  these,  that  he  must  utter  their  dis- 
tress. 

We  build  the  bridge,   and  swing  the 

wondrous  wire, 
Bind  with  an  iron  hoop  the  rolling 

world  ; 

Sport  with  the  spirits  of  the  ductile  fire  ; 
And  leave  our  spells  upon  the  vapor 
furled  ; 


PALINGENESIS. 


269 


And  cry  —  Behold  the  progress  of  the 

time  ! 
Yet  are  we  tending  in  an  unknown 

land, 

Whither,  we  neither  ask  nor  under- 
stand, 

Far  from   the  peace  of   our  unvalued 
prime  ! 

And    Strength    and   Force,   the    fiends 

which  minister 
To  some  new-risen  Power  beyond  our 

span, 
On  either  hand,   with  hook   and  nail, 

confer  , 

To  rivet  the  Promethean  heart  of  man 
Under  the  ravening  and  relentless  beak 
Of  unappeasable  Desire,  which  yet 
The  very  vitals  of  the  age  doth  fret. 
The  limbs  are  mighty,  but  the  heart  is 
weak. 

Writhe   on,    Prometheus !    or  whate'er 

thou  art, 
Thou  giant   sufferer,   groaning  for  a 

race 
Thou  canst  not  save,  for  all  thy  bleeding 

heart  ! 
Thy  wail   my  harp   hath  wakened ; 

and  my  place 

Shall  be  beside  thee  ;  and  my  blessing  be 
On  all  that  makes  me  worthy  yet  to 

share 
Thy  lonely  martyrdom,  and  with  thee 

wear 

That  crown  of  anguish  given  to  poets, 
and  thee  ! 

If  to  have  wept,  and  wildly ;  to  have 

loved 
Till  love  grew  torture  ;  to  have  grieved 

till  grief 

'Became  a  part  of  life  ;  if  to  have  proved 
The  want  of  all  things ;  if,  to  draw 

relief 

From  poesy  for  passion,  this  avail, 
I  lack  no  title  to  my  crown.     The  sea 
Hath  sent  up  nymphs  for  my  society, 
The  mountains  have  been  moved  to  hear 
my  wail. 

Nature  and  man  were  children  long  ago 

In  glad  simplicity  of  heart  and  speech. 

Now  they  are  strangers  to  each  other's 

woe  ; 

And  each  hath  language  different  from 
each. 


The  simplest  songs  sound  sweetest  and 

most  good. 
The  simplest  loves  are  the  most  loving 

ones. 
Happier  were  song's  forefathers  than 

their  sons. 
And  Homer  sung  as  Byron  never  could. 

But  Homer  cannot  come  again  :  nor  ever 

The  quiet  of  the  age  in  which  he  sung. 

This  age  is  one  of  tumult  and  endeavor, 

And  by  a  fevered  hand  its  harps  are 

strung. 

And  yet,  I  do  not  quarrel  with  the  time  ; 
Nor  quarrel  with  the  tumult  of  my 

heart, 
Which  of  the  tumult  of  the  age  is 

part  ; 
Because  its  very  weakness  is  sublime. 

The  passions  are  as  winds  on  the  wide  sea 
Of  human  life  ;   which  do  impel  the 

sails 
Of  man's  great  enterprise,  whate'er  that 

be. 
The  reckless  helmsman,  caught  upon 

these  gales, 
Under   the    roaring    gulfs    goes    down 


The  prudent  pilot  to  the  steadying 
breeze 

Sparely  gives  head ;  and,  over  peril- 
ous seas, 

Drops  anchor  'mid  the  Fortunate  Isles, 
at  last. 

We  pray  against  the  tempest  and  the 

strife,  , 

The   storm,  the  whirlwind,   and  the 

troublous  hour, 

Which  vex  the  fretful  element  of  life. 
Me  rather  save,    0   dread    disposing 

Power, 
From  those  dead  calms,   that  flat  and 

hopeless  lull, 
In  which  the  dull  sea  rots  around  the 

bark, 

And   nothing  moves   save  the  sure- 
creeping  dark, 
That  slowly  settles  o'er  an  idle  hull. 

For  in  the  storm,  the  tumult,  and  the  stir 
That  shakes  the  soul,  man  finds  hia 

power  and  place 
Among  the  elements.     Deeps  with  deeps 

confer, 
And  Nature's  secret  settles  in  her  face. 


270 


THE  WANDERER. 


Let  ocean  to  his  inmost  caves  be  stirred  ; 
Let  the  wild  light  be  smitten  from  the 

cloud. 
The  decks  may  reel,   the  masts   be 

snapt  and  bowed, 

But  God  hath  spoken  out,   and  man 
hath  heard  ! 

Farewell,   you  lost  inhabitants  of  my 

mind, 

You  fair  ephemerals  of  faded  hours  ! 
Farewell,    you  lands  of  exile,    whence 

each  wind 
Of  memory  steals  with  fragrance  over 

flowers  ! 

Farewell,  Cordelia !  Ella  ! . .  .  But  not  so 
Farewell  the  memories  of  you  which 

I  have 
Till  strangers  shall  be  sitting  on  my 

grave 

And  babbling  of  the  dust  which  lies 
below. 

Blessed  the  man  whose  life,   how  sad 

soe'er, 
Hath  felt  the  presence,  and  yet  keeps 

the  trace 

Of  one  pure  woman  !    With  religious  care 
We  close  the  doors,  with  reverent  feet 

we  pace 
The  vacant  chambers,  where,  of  yore,  a 

Queen 
One  night    hath    rested.     From  my 

Past's  pale  walls 

Yet  gleam  the  unfaded  fair  memorials 
Of  her  whose  beauty  there,  awhile,  hath 
been. 

• 

She  passed,  into  my  youth,  at  its  night- 
time, 
When    low  the  lamplight,    and   the 

music  husht. 
She    passed    and  passed    away.     Some 

broken  rhyme 
Scrawled  on  the  panel  or  the  pane  : 

the  crusht 
And  faded  rose  she  dropped  :  the  page 

she  tunied 
And  finished  not :  the  ribbon  or  the 

knot 
That  fluttered  from  her  .  .  .  Stranger, 

harm  them  not ! 
I  keep  these  sacred  relics  undiscerned. 

Men's  truths  are  often  lies,  and  women's 

lies 
Often  the  setting  of  a  truth  most  tender 


In  an   unconscious   poesy.     The  child 

cries 
To  clutch  the  star  that  lights  its  rosy 

splendor 
In  airy  Edens  of  the  west  afar. 

"Ah,  folly!"   sighs  the  father,  o'er 

his  book. 
"Millions  of  miles  above  thy  foolish 

nook 
Of  infantile  desire,  the  Hesperus-star 

"  Descends  not,  child,  to  twinkle  on  thy 

cot." 
Then  readjusts  his  blind-wise  specta- 

cles, 
While  tears  to  sobs  are  changing,  were 

it  not 

The  mother,  with  those  tender  sylla- 
bles 
Which  even  Dutch  mothers  can  make 

musical  too, 
Murmurs,  "  Sleep,  sleep,  my  little  one  ! 

and  I 
Will  pluck  thy  star  for  thee,  and  by 

and  by 
Lay  it  upon  thy  pillow  bright  with  dew." 

And  the  child  sleeps,  and  dreams  of  stars 

whose  light 
Beams  in  his  own  bright  eyes  when  he 

awakes. 
So  sleep  !  so  dream  !     If  aught  I  read 

aright 
That  star,  poor  babe,  which  o'er  thy 

cradle  shakes, 

Thy  fate  may  fall,  in  after  years,  to  be 
That  other  child  that,  like  thee,  loves 

the  star, 
And,  like  thee,  weeps  to  find  it  all  so 

far, 
Feeling  its  force  in  his  nativity :  — 

That  other  infant,  all  as  weak,  as  wild, 
As  passionate,  and  as  helpless,  as  thou 

art, 
Whom  men  will  call  a  Poet  (Poet,  or 

child, 
The  star  is  still  so  distant  from  the 

heart !) 
If  so,  heaven  grant  that  thou  mayst  find 

at  last, 
Since  such  there  are,  some  woman, 

whose  sweet  smile, 

Pitying,  may  thy  fond  fancy  yet  be- 
guile 

To  dream   the  star,   which  thou    hast 
sought,  thou  hast ! 


PALINGENESIS. 


271 


For  men,  if  thou  shouldst  heed  what 

they  may  say, 
Will  break  thy  heart,  or  leave  thee, 

like  themselves 
No  heart  for  breaking.     Wherefore  I  do 

pray 
My  book   may  lie   upon   no  learned 

shelves, 

But  that  in  some  deep  summer  eve,  per- 
chance, 
Some   woman,   melancholy-eyed,   and 

pale, 
Whose  heart,  like  mine,  hath  suffered, 

may  this  tale 
Read  by  the  soft  light  of  her  own  romance. 

Go  forth  over  the  wide  world,  Song  of 

mine  ! 

As  Noah's  dove  out  of  his  bosom  flew 
Over  the  desolate,  vast,  and  wandering 

brine. 

Seek  thou  thy  nest  afar.     Thy  plaint 
renew 


From  heart  to  heart,  and  on  from  land 

to  land 
Fly  boldly,  till  thou  find  that  unknown 

friend 
Whose  face,  in  dreams,  above  my  own 

doth  bend, 

Then  tell  that  spirit  what  it  will  under- 
stand, 

Why  men  can  tell  to  strangers  all  the 

tale 
From  friends  reserved.     And  tell  that 

spirit,  my  Song, 

Wherefore  I  have  not  faltered  to  unveil 
The   cryptic  forms   of    error  and   of 

wrong. 

And  say,   1  suffered  more   than   I   re- 
corded, 
That  each  man's  life  is  all  men's  lesson. 

Say, 
And  let  the  world  believe  thee,  as  it 

may, 
Thy  tale  is  true,  however  weakly  worded. 


TANNHAUSER;* 


OB, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


A  portion  of  this  poem  was  written  by  another  hand. 


THIS  is  the  Land,  the  happy  valleys 

these, 
Broad  breadths  of  plain,  blue-veined  by 

many  a  stream, 

Umbrageous  hills,  sweet  glades,  and  for- 
ests fair, 
O'er  which  our  good  liege,   Landgrave 

Herman,  rules. 

This  is  Thuringia :  yonder,  on  the  heights, 
Is  Wartburg,  seat  of  our  dear  lord's  abode, 
Famous  through  Christendom  for  many 

a  feat 

Of  deftest  knights,  chief  stars  of  chivalry, 
At  tourney  in  its  courts ;  nor  more  re- 
nowned 
For  deeds  of  Prowess  than  exploits  of 

Art, 

Achieved  when,  vocal  in  its  Muses'  hall, 
The  minstrel-knights  their  glorious  jousts 

renew, 

And  for  the  laurel  wage  harmonious  war. 
On  this  side  spreads  the  Chase  in  wooded 

slopes 

And  sweet  acclivities  ;  and,  all  beyond, 
The  open  flats  lie  fruitful  to  the  sun 
Full  many  a  league  ;  till,  dark  against 

the  sky, 

Bounding  the  limits  of  our  lord's  domain, 
The  Hill  of  Horsel  rears  his  horrid  front. 
Woe  to  the  man  who  wanders  in  the  vast 
Of  those  unhallowed  solitudes,  if  Sin, 
Quickening  the  lust  of  carnal  appetite, 
Lurk  secret  in  his  heart :  for  all  their 

caves 

Echo   weird   strains  of  magic,  direful- 
sweet, 
That  lap  the  wanton  sense  in  blissful 

ease  ; 

While  through  the  ear  a  reptile  music 
creeps, 


And,  blandly-busy,  round  about  the  soul 
Weaves  its  fell  web  of  sounds.     The  un- 

happy  wight 
Thus  captive  made  in  soft  and  silken 

bands 

Of  tangled  harmony,  is  led  away  — 
Away  adown  the  ever-darkening  caves, 
Away  from  fairness  and  the  face  of  God, 
Away  into  the  mountain's  mystic  womb, 
To  where,  reclining  on  her  impious  couch 
All  the  fair  length  of  her  lascivious  limbs, 
Languid  in  light  from  roseate  tapers  fl  ung, 
Incensed  with  perfumes,  tended  on  by 

fays, 
The  lustful  Queen,  waiting  damnation, 

holds 
Her  bestial  revels.    The  Queen  of  Beauty 

once, 
A  goddess  called  and  worshipped  in  the 

days 

When  men  their  own  infirmities  adored, 
Deeming    divine    who    in    themselves 

summed  up 

The  full-blown  passions  of  humanity. 
Large  fame  and  lavish  service  had  she 

then, 

Venus  ycleped,  of  all  the  Olympian  crew 
Least  continent  of  Spirits  and  most  fair. 
So  reaped  she  honor  of  unwistful  men, 
Roman,  or  Greek,  or  dwellers  on  the 

plains 

Of  Egypt,  or  the  isles  to  utmost  Ind  ; 
Till  came  the  crack  of  that  tremendous 

Doom 
That  sent  the  false  gods  shivering  from 

their  seats, 
Shattered  the   superstitious   dome  that 

bleared 
Heaven's  face  to  man,  and  on  the  lurid 

world 


•  The  reader  is  solicited  to  adopt  the  German  pronunciation  of  TAKNHAUSEB,  by  sounding  it 
<u>  if  it  were  written,  in  English,  "  Tannhoiser." 


TANNHAUSER. 


273 


Let  in  effulgence  of  untainted  light. 
As  when,  laid  bare  beneath  the  delver's 

toil 

On  some  huge  bulk  of  buried  masonry 
In  hoar  Assyria,  suddenly  revealed 
A  chamber,  gay  with  sculpture  and  the 

pomp 

Of  pictured  tracery  on  its  glowing  walls, 
No  sooner  breathes  the  wholesome  heav- 
enly air 
Than  fast  its  colored  bravery  fades,  and 

fall 
Its  ruined  statues,  crumbled  from  their 

crypts, 
And  all  its  gauds  grow  dark  at  sight  of 

day  ; 

So  darkened  and  to  dusty  ruin  fell 
The  fleeting  glories  of  a  Pagan  faith, 
Bared  to  Truth's  influences  bland,  and 

smit 
Blind  by  the  splendors  of  the  Bethlehem 

Dawn. 
Then  from  their  shattered  temple  in  the 

minds 
Of  men,  and  from  their  long  familiar 

homes, 
Their   altars,    fanes,    and    shrines,   the 

sumptuous  seats 

Of  their  mendacious  oracles,  out-slunk 
The  wantons  of  Olympus.     Forth  they 

fled, 
Forth    from    Dodona,    Delos,    and    the 

depths 

Of  wooded  Ida  ;  from  Athenae  forth, 
Cithaeron,  Paphos,  Thebes,  and  all  their 

groves 

Of  oak  or  poplar,  dismally  to  roam 
About  the  new-baptized  earth  ;  exiled, 
Bearing  the  curse,    yet  suffered   for  a 

space, 

By  Heaven's  clear  sapience  and  inscru- 
table ken, 
To  range  the  wide  world,  and  assay  their 

powers 

To  unregenerate  redeemed  mankind  : 
If  haply  they  by  shadows  and  by  shows, 
Phantasmagoria,  and  illusions  wrought 
Of  sight  or  sound  by  sorcery,  may  draw 
Unwary  men,  or  weak,  into  the  nets 
Of  Satan  their  great  Captain.     She  re- 
nowned 
"  The  fairest,"  fleeing  from  her  Cyprian 

isle, 
Swept  to  the  northwards  many  a  league, 

and  lodged 
At  length  on  Horsel,  into  whose  dark 

womb 

18 


She  crept  confounded.     Thither  soon  she 

drew 

Lewd  Spirits  to  herself,  and  there  abides, 
Holding  her  devilish  orgies  ;    and  has 

power 

With  siren  voices  crafty  to  compel 
Into  her  wanton  home  unhappy  men 
Whose  souls  to  sin  are  prone.     The  pure 

at  heart 
Nathless  may  roam  about  her  pestilent 

hill 
Untainted,     proof     against     perfidious 

sounds 

Within  whose  ears  an  angel  ever  sings 
Good  tidings  of  great  joy.    Nor  even  they, 
Whose  hearts  are  gross,  and  who  inflamed 

with  lust 

Enter,  entrapped  by  sorceries,  to  her  cave, 
Are  damned  beyond  redemption.     For  a 

while, 
Slaves  of  their  bodies,  in  the  sloughs  of 

Sin, 
They  roll  contented,  wallowing  in  the 

arms 

Of  their  libidinous  goddess.     But,  ere- 
long, 
Comes  loathing  of  the  sensual  air  they 

breathe, 
Loathing  of  light  unhallowed,  sickening 

sense 

Of  surfeited  enjoyment  ;  and  their  lips, 
Spurning  the  reeky  pasture,  yearn  for 

draughts 
Of  rock-rebounding  rills,  their  eyes  for 

sight 
Of  Heaven,  their  limbs  for  lengths  of 

dewy  grass : 
What  time  sharp  Conscience  pricks  them, 

and  awake 
Starts  the  requickened  soul  with  all  her 

powers, 

And  breaks,  if  so  she  will,  the  murder- 
ous spell, 

Calling  on  God.     God  to  her  rescue  sends 
Voiced  seraphims  that  lead  the  sinner 

forth 

From  darkness  unto  day,  from  foul  em- 
brace 

Of  that  bloat  Queen  into  the  mother-lap 
Of   earth,    and   the   caressent    airs    of 

Heaven ; 
Where    he,    by    strong    persistency  of 

prayer, 

By  painful  pilgrimage,  by  lengths  of  fast 
That  tame  the  rebel  flesh,  by  many  a 

night 
Of  vigil,  days  of  deep  repentant  tears, 


274 


TANNHAUSER; 


May  cleanse  his  soul  of  her  adulterate 

stains, 

May  from  his  sin-incrusted  spirit  shake 
The  leprous  scales,  —  and,  purely  at  the 

feet 

Of  his  Redemption  falling,  may  arise 
Of  Christ  accepted.     Whoso  doubts  the 

truth, 

Doubting  how  deep  divine  Compassion  is, 
Lend  to  my  tale  a  willing  ear,  and  learn. 

Full  twenty  summers  have  fled  o'er  the 

land, 
A  score  of  winters  on  our  Landgrave's 

head 
Have  showered  their  snowy  honors,  since 

the  days 
When  in  his  court  no  nobler  knight  was 

known, 
And  in  his  halls  no  happier  bard  was 

heard, 

Than  bright  Tannhauser.    Warrior,  min- 
strel, he 

Throve  for  a  while  within  the  general  eye, 
As  some  king-cedar,  in  Crusader  tales, 
The   stateliest    growth    of    Lebanonian 

groves  : 
For  now  I   sing  him  in  his  matchless 

prime, 
Not,   as  in    latter    days,   defaced   and 

marred 

By  secret  sin,  and  like  the  wasted  torch 
Found  in  the  dank  grass  at  the  ghastly 

dawn, 

After  a  witches'  revel.  He  was  a  man 
In  whom  prompt  Nature,  as  in  those 

soft  climes 

Where  life  is  indolently  opulent, 
Blossomed  unbid  to  graces  barely  won 
From  tedious  culture,  where  less  kindly 

stars 
Cold  influence  keep  ;  and  trothful  men, 

who  once 
Looked  in  his  lordly,  luminous  eyes, 

and  scanned 
His  sinewous  frame,  compact  of  pliant 

power, 

Aver  he  was  the  fairest -favored  knight 
That  ever,  in  the  light  of  ladies'  looks, 
Made  gay  these  goodly  halls.  Oh  ! 

deeper  dole, 

That  so  august  a  Spirit,  sphered  so  fair, 
Should  from  the  starry  sessions  of  his 

peers 

Decline,  to  quench  so  bright  a  brilliancy 
In    Hell's    sick    spume.     Ay   me,    the 

deeper  dole  ! 


From  yonder  tower  the  wheeling  lap- 
wing loves 

Beyond  all  others,  that  o'ertops  the  pines, 

And  from  his  one  white,  wistful  window 
stares 

Into  the  sullen  heart  o'  the  land,  —  ere- 
while 

The  wandering  woodman  oft,  at  night- 
fall, heard 

A  sad,  wild  strain  of  solitary  song 

Float  o'er  the  forest.     Whoso  heard  it, 
paused 

Compassionately,   crossed   himself,   and 
sighed, 

"Alas!    poor  Princess,  to  thy  piteous 
moan 

Heaven  send  sweet  pe,ace  ! "      Heaven 
heard,  and  now  she  lies 

Under  the  marble,  'mid  the  silent  tombs, 

Calm  with   her  kindred ;    as  her  soul 
above 

Rests  with  the  saints  of  God. 

The  brother's  child 

Of  our  good   lord   the   Landgrave  was 
this  maid, 

And  here  with  him  abode  ;  for  in  the 
breach 

At  Ascalon,  her  sire  in  Holy  Land 

Had  fallen,  fighting  forthe  Cross.    These 
halls 

Sheltered  her  infancy,  and  here  she  grew 

Among  the  shaggy  barons,  like  the  pale, 

Mild-eyed,  March-violet  of  the  North, 
that  blows 

Bleak  under  bergs  of  ice.     Full  fair  she 
grew, 

And  all  men  loved  the  rare  Elizabeth  ; 

But  she,  of  all  men,  loved  one  man  the 
most, 

Tannhauser,  minstrel,  knight,  the  man 
in  whom 

All  mankind  flowered.     Fairer  growth, 
indeed, 

Of  knighthood  never  blossomed  to  the 
eye  ; 

But,  furled  beneath  that  florid  surface, 
lurked 

A  vice  of  nature,  "breeding  death,  not 
life  ;- 

Such  as  where  some  rich  Roman,  to  de- 
light 

Luxurious  days  with  lahyrinthian  walks 

Of  rose  and  lily,  marble  fountains,  forms 

Wanton  of  Grace  or  Nymph,  and  wind- 
ing frieze 

With  sculpture  rough,  hath  decked  th« 
summer  haunts 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


275 


Of   his   voluptuous   villa,  —  there,  fes- 
tooned 

With  flowers,  among  the  Graces  and  the 
Gods, 

The  lurking  fever  glides. 

A  dangerous  skill, 

Caught  from  the  custom  of  those  trou- 
badours 

That  roam  the  wanton  South,  too  near 
the  homes 

Of  the  lost  gods,  had  crept  in  careless  use 

Among  our  northern  bards  ;  to  play  the 
thief 

Upou  the  poets  of  a  pagan  time, 

And  steal,  to  purfle  their  embroidered 
lays, 

Voluptuous  trappings  of  lascivious  lore. 

Hence  had  Tannhauser,  from  of  old,  in- 
dulged 

In  song  too  lavish  license  to  mislead 

The  sense  among  those  fair  but  phantom 
forms 

That  haunt  the  unhallowed  past :  where- 
from  One  Shape 

Forth  of  the  cloudy  circle  gradual  grew 

Distinct,   in    dissolute  beauty.    She  of 
old, 

Who  from  the  idle  foam  uprose,  to  reign 

In  fancies  all  as  idle,  —  that  fair  fiend, 

Venus,  whose  temples  are  the  veins  in 
youth. 

Now  more  and  ever  more  she  mixed  her- 
self 
With  all  his  moods,  and  whispered  in 

his  walks  ; 
Or  through  the  misty  minster,  when  he 

kneeled 

Meek  on  the  flint,  athwart  the  incense- 
smoke 
She  stole  on  sleeping  sunbeams, sprinkled 

sounds 
Of  cymbals  through  the  silver  psalms, 

and  marred 

His  adoration  :  most  of  all,  whene'er 
He  sought  to  fan  those  fires  of  holy  love 
That,  sleeping  oftenest,  sometimes  leapt 

to  flame, 

Kindled  by  kindred  passion  in  the  eyes 
Of  sweet  Elizabeth,  round  him  rose  and 

rolled 

That  miserable  magic  ;  and,  at  times, 
It  drove  him  forth  to  wander  in  the  waste 
And  desert  places,  there  where  prayer- 
less  man 

Is  most  within  the  power  of  prowling 
fiends. 


Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the  days. 
Outcropped   the  coming   harvest  ;    and 

there  came 
An   evening  with   the   Princess,   when 

they  twain 

Together  ranged  the  terrace  that  o'erlaps 
The  great  south  garden.  .  All  her  simple 

hair 

A  single  sunbeam  from  the  sleepy  west 
O'erfloated  ;    swam  her  soft   blue  eyes 

suffused 
With  tender  ruth,  and  her  meek  face 

was  moved 
To  one  slow,  serious  smile,  that  stole  to 

find 
Its  resting-place  on  his. 

Then,  while  he  looked 
On  that  pure  loveliness,  within  himself 
He  faintly  felt  a  mystery  like  pure  love  : 
For  through  the  arid  hollows  of  a  heart 
Sered  by  delirious  dreams,  the  dewy 

sense 
Of   innocent  worship    stole.     The  one 

great  word 

That  long  had  hovered  in  the  silent  mind 
Now  on  the  lip  half  settled  ;  for  not  yet 
Had  love  between  them  been  a  spoken 

sound 

For  after  speech  to  lean  on  ;  only  here 
And  there,  where  scattered  pauses  strewed 

their  talk, 
Love  seemed  to  o'erpoise  the  silence,  like 

a  star 
Seen  through  a  tender  trouble  of  light 

clouds. 
But,  in  that  moment,  some  mysterious 

touch, 
A  thought  —  who  knows  ?  —  a  memory 

—  something  caught 
Perchance  from  flying  fancies,    taking 

form 
Among  the  sunset  clouds,    or  scented 

gusts 
Of  evening  through  the  gorgeous  glooms, 

shrunk  up 

His  better  angel,  and  at  once  awaked 
The  carnal  creature  sleeping  in  the  flesh. 
Then  died  within  his  heart  that  word  of 

life 
Unspoken,    which,    if    spoken,    might 

have  savud 
The  dreadful  doom  impending.     So  they 

twain 
Parted,   and  nothing  said  :  she  to  her 

tower, 
There  with  rneek  wonder  to  renew  the 

calm 


276 


T  A. \\HAUSER; 


And  customary  labor  of  the  loom  ; 
Ami  lie  into  llie  gradual-creeping  dark 
Which  now  began  to  draw  the  rooks  to 

roost 
Along  the  windless  woods. 

His  soul  that  eve 

Shook  strangely  if  some  flickering  shad- 
ow stole 
Across  the  slopes  where  sunset,  sleeping 

out 
The  day's  last  dream,  yet  lingered  low. 

Old  songs 
Were  sweet  about  his  brain,  old  fancies 

fair 

O'erflowed  with  lurid  life  the  lonely  land  : 
The  twilight  trooped  with  antic  shapes, 

and  swarmed 
Above  him,   and  the   deep  mysterious 

woods 
With   mystic  music   drew   him  to   his 

doom. 

So  rapt,  with  idle  and  with  errant  foot 
He  wandered  on  to  Hbrsel,   and  those 

glades 
Of  melancholy  fame,   whose  poisonous 

glooms, 
Decked   with    the    gleaming  hemlock, 

darkly  fringe 
The  Mount  of  Venus.     There,  a  drowsy 

sense 
Of  languor  seized  him  ;  and  he  sat  him 

down 

Among  a  litter  of  loose  stones  and  blocks 
Of  broken  columns,  overrun  with  weed, 
Remnants  of  heathen  work  that  some- 
time propped 
A  pagan  temple. 

Suddenly,  the  moon, 
Slant  from   the  shoulder  of  the  mon- 
strous hill, 
Swung  o'er  a   sullen   lake,   and  softly 

touched 
With   light  a  shattered  statue  in   the 

weed. 

He  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  all  at  once, 
Bright  in  her  baleful  beauty,  he  beheld 
The  goddess  of  his  dreams.     Beholding 

whom, 

Lost  to  his  love,  forgetful  of  his  faith, 
And  fevered  by  the  stimulated  sense 
Of  reprobate  desire,  the  madman  cried  : 
"Descend,    Dame  Venus,   on   my  soul 

descend  ! 
Break  up  the  marble  sleep  of  those  still 

brows 
Where  beauty  broods !     Down  all  my 

senses  swim, 


As  yonder  moon  to  yonder  love-lit  lake 
Swims  down  in  glory  ! " 

H<  11  the  horrid  prayer 
Accorded  with  a  curse.     Scarce  those 

wild  words 
Were  uttered,  when  like  mist  the  marble 

moved, 
Flusht  with  false  life.     Deep  in  a  sleepy 

cloud 

He  seemed  to  sink  beneath  the  sumptu- 
ous face 
Leaned  o'er  him,  —  all  the  whiteness,  all 

the  warmth, 

And  all  the  luxury  of  languid  limbs, 
Where  violet  vein-streaks,  lost  in  limpid 

lengths 

Of  snowy  surface,  wander  faint  and  fine  ; 
Whilst  cymballed   music,   stolen   from 

underneath, 
Creeps  through  a  throbbing  light  that 

grows  and  glows 

From  glare  to  greater  glare,  until  it  gluts 
And  gulfs  him  in. 

And  from  that  hour,  in  court, 
And  chase,  and  tilted  tourney,  many  a 

month, 
From  mass  in  holy  church,  and  mirth 

in  hall, 

From  all  the  fair  assemblage  of  his  peers, 
And  all  the  feudatory  festivals, 
Men  missed  Tannhauser. 

At  the  first,  as  when 
From  some  great  oak  his  goodliest  branch 

is  lopped, 

The  little  noisy  birds,  that  built  about 
The   foliage,   gather  in   the   gap   with 

shrill 

And  querulous  curiosity  ;  even  so, 
From   all   the   twittering  tongues   that 

thronged  the  court 
Rose  general  hubbub  of  astonishment, 
And  vext  surmise  about  the  absent  man  : 
Why   absent?    whither  wandered?   en 

what  quest 
Of  errant  prowess  ?  —  for,  as  yet,  none 

knew 

His  miserable  fall.     But  time  wore  on, 
The  wonder  wore  away ;  round  absence 

crept 
The  weed  of  custom,   and   the   absent 

one 
Became  at  last  a  memory,  and  no  more. 

One  heart   within   that   memory   lived 

aloof; 
One  face,   remembering  his,   forgot  \» 

smile; 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


277 


Our  Landgrave's  niece  the  old  familiar 

ways 
Walked   like   a  ghost  with  unfamiliar 

looks. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the  days. 
The  rose  burned  out ;  red  Autumn  lit 

the  woods  ; 
The   last   snows,   melting,   changed   to 

snowy  clouds  ; 
And  Spring  once  more  with  incantations 

came 
To  wake  the  buried  year.      Then   did 

our  liege, 
Lord  Landgrave  Herman,  —  for  he  loved 

his  niece, 
And  lightly  from  her  simple  heart  had 

won 
The  secret  of  lost  smiles,  and  why  she 

drooped, 

A  wilted  flower,  —  thinking  to  dispel, 
If  that  might  be,  her  mournfulness,  let 

cry 

By  heralds  that,  at  coming  Whitsuntide, 
The  minstrel-knights  in  Wartburg  should 

convene 
To  hold  high  combat  in  the   craft  of 

song, 
And  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the 

prize. 

But,  ere  that  time,  it  fell  upon  a  day 
When  our  good  lord  went  forth  to  hunt 

the  hart, 
That  he  with  certain  of  his  court,  'mid 

whom 
Was    Wolfram,  —  once    Tannhauser's 

friend,  himself 

Among  the  minstrels  held  in  high  re- 
nown, — 
Came  down  the  Wartburg  valley,  where 

they  deemed 
To  hold  the  hart  at   siege,  and  found 

him  not : 
But  found,  far  down,  at  bottom  of  the 

glade, 

Beneath  a  broken  cross,  a  lonely  knight 
Who  sat  on  a  great  stone,  watching  the 

clouds. 

And  Wolfram,  being  a  little  in  the  van 
Of  all  his  fellows,  eager  for  the  hunt, 
Hurriedly  ran  to  question  of  the  knight 
If  he  had  viewed  the  hart.     But  when 

he  came 

To  parley  with  him,  suddenly  he  gave 
A  shout  of  great  good  cheer ;  for,  all  at 

once. 


In  that  same  knight  he  saw,  and  knew, 
though  changed, 

Tannhauser,  his  old  friend  and  fellow- 
bard. 

Now,  Wolfram  long  had  loved  Elizabeth 
As  one  should  love  a  star  in  heaven,  who 

knows 

The  distance  of  it,  and  the  reachlessness. 
But  when  he  knew  Tannhauser  in  her 

heart 
(For  loving  eyes,  in  eyes  beloved  are 

swift 
To  search  out  secrets)  not  the  less  his 

own 
Clave  unto  both  ;  and,  from  that  time, 

his  love 

Lived  like  an  orphan  child  in  charity, 
Whose  loss  came  early,   and  is  gently 

borne, 
Too  deep  for  tears,  too  constant  for  com- 

Slaint. 
erefore,   in  the  absence  of  his 
friend 
His  inmost  heart  was  heavy,  when  he 

saw 

The  shadow  of  that  absence  in  the  face 
He  loved  beyond  all  faces  upon  earth. 

So  that  when  now  he  found  that  friend 
again 

Whom  he  had  missed  and  mourned, 
right  glad  was  he 

Both  for  his  own  and  for  the  Princess' 
sake  : 

And  ran  and  fell  upon  Tannhauser's 
neck, 

And  all  for  joy  constrained  him  to  his 
heart, 

Calling  his  fellows  from  the  neighboring 
hills, 

Who,  crowding,  came,  great  hearts  and 
open  arms 

To  welcome  back  their  peer.  The  Land- 
grave then, 

When  he  perceived  his  well-beloved 
knight, 

Was  passing  glad,  and  would  have  ques- 
tioned him 

Of  his  long  absence.  But  the  man  him- 
self 

Could  answer  nothing ;  staring  with 
blank  eyes 

From  face  to  face,  then  up  into  the  blu^ 

Bland  heavens  above;  astonied,  air  I 
like  one 

Who,  suddenly  awaking  out  of  sleep 


278 


TANNHAUSER; 


After  sore  sickness,  knows  his  friends 

again, 
And  would  peruse  their  faces,  but  breaks 

off 

To  list  the  frolic  bleating  of  the  lamb 
In  far-off  fields,  and  wonder  at  the  world 
And  all  its  strangeness.     Then,    while 

the  glad  knights 
Clung  round  him,  wrung  his  hands,  and 

dinned  his  ears 

With  clattering  query,  our  fair  lord  him- 
self 

Unfolded  how,  upon  the  morrow  morn, 
There  should   be  holden  festive  in  his 

halls 
High  meeting  of  the  minstrels  of  the 

land, 

To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the  prize : 
Whereto  he  bade  him  with,  "0  sir,  be 

sure 
There  lives  a  young  voice  that  shall  tax 

your  wit 

To  justify  this  absence  from  your  friends. 
We  trust,  at  least,  that  you  have  brought 

us  back 
A  score  of  giants'  beards,  or  dragons' 

tails, 

To  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  our  fair  niece. 
For  think  not,  truant,  that  Elizabeth 
Will  hold  you  lightly  quitted." 

At  that  name, 

Elizabeth,  he  started  as  a  man 
That  hears  on  foreign  shores,  from  alien 

lips, 

Some  name  familiar  to  his  fatherland  : 
And  all  at  once  the  man's  heart  inly 

yearns 
For  brooks  that  bubble,  and  for  woods 

that  wave 

Before  his  father's  door,  while  he  forgets 
The  forms  about  him.     So  Tannhauser 

mused 
A  little  space,  then   faltered  :  "0  my 

liege, 
Fares  my  good  lady  well  ?  —  I  pray  my 

lord 

That  I  may  draw  me  hence  a  little  while, 
For    all    my   mind  is   troubled :    and, 

indeed, 
I  know  not  if  my  harp  have  lost  his 

skill, 
But,   skilled,   or  skilless,   it  shall  find 

some  tone 

To  render  thanks,  to-morrow  to  my  lord ; 
To  whose  behests  a  bondsman,  in  so  far 
As  my  poor  service  holds,  I  will  assay 
To  sing  before  the  Princess  for  the  prize." 


Then,  on  the  morrow  morn,  from  far  and 

near 
Flowed   in   the   feudatory   lords.      The 

hills 
Broke  out  ablaze  with  banners,  and  rung 

loud 
With  tingling  trumpet  notes,  and  iieigh- 

ing  steeds. 

For  all  the  land,  elate  with  lusty  life, 
Buzzed  like  a  beehive  in  the  sun  ;  and 

all 

The  castle  swarmed  from  bridge  to  bar- 
bican 
With    mantle    and  with    mail,    whilst 

minster-  bel  Is 
Rang  hoarse  their  happy  chimes,  till  the 

high  noon 
Clanged  from  the  towers.      Then,   o'er 

the  platform  stoled 
And  canopied  in  crimson,  lightly  blew 
The  sceptred  heralds  on  the  silver  trump 
Intense  sonorous  music,  sounding  in 
The  knights  to  hall.     Shrill  clinked  the 

corridors 
Through   all   the  courts  with   clashing 

heels,  or  moved 

With  silken  murmurs,  and  elastic  sounds 
Of  lady  laughters  light ;  as  in  they  Kowed 
Lord,  Liegeman,  Peer,  and  Prince,  and 

Paladin, 
And  dame  and  damsel,  clad  in  dimpling 

silk 
And  gleaming  pearl  ;    who,   while   the 

groaning  roofs 

Re-echoed  royal  music,  swept  adown 
The  spacious  hall,  with  due  obeisance 

made 

To  the  high  dais,  and  on  glittering  seats 
Dropped  one  by  one,  like  flocks  of  bur- 
nished birds 
That  settle   down  with  sunset-painted 

plumes 
On  gorgeous  woods.      Again  from  the 

outer  wall 
The  intermitted   trumpet  blared;    and 

each 
Pert  page,   a-tiptoe,   from  the   benches 

leaned 

To  see  the  minstrel-knights,  gold-filleted, 
That  entered  now  the  hall  :  Sir  Mande- 

ville, 
The  Swan  of  Eisnach  ;  Wilfrid  of  the 

Hills  ; 
Wolfram,   surnamed  of   Willow-brook  ; 

and  next 
Tannhauser,   christened  of  the  Golden 

Harp; 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


279 


With  Walter  of  the  Heron-chase  ;  and 
Max, 

The  seer  ;  Sir  Rudolph,  of  the  Raven- 
crest  ; 

And  Franz,  the  falconer.  They  entered, 
each 

In  order,  followed  by  a  blooming  boy 

That  bore  his  harp,  and,  pacing  forward, 
bowed 

Before  the  Landgrave  and  Elizabeth. 

Pale  sat  the  Princess  in  her  chair  of 

state, 

Perusing  with  fixed  eyes,  that  all  be- 
lied 

Her  throbbing  heart,  the  carven  archi- 
trave, 

Whereon  the  intricate  much-vexed  design 
Of  leaf  and  stem  disinterwined  itself 
With  infinite  laboriousness,  at  last 
Escaping  in  a  flight  of  angel  forms  ; 
As  thougli   the   carver's    thought   had 

been  to  show 

The  weary  struggle  of  the  soul  to  free 
Her  flight  from  earth's  bewilderment, 

and  all 
That  frets  her  in  the  flesh.     But  when, 

erewhile, 
The  minstrels  entered,  and  Tannhauser 

bowed 
Before  the  dais,  the  Landgrave,  at  her 

side, 
Saw,  as  he  mused  what  theme  to  give  for 

song, 

The  pallid  forehead  of  Elizabeth 
Flush  to  the  fair  roots  of  her  golden  hair, 
And   thought    within    himself:     "Our 

knight  delays 
To  own  a  love  that  aims  so  near  our 

throne  ; 
Hence,  haply,  this  late  absence  from  our 

court, 
And  those   bewildered  moods  which  I 

have  marked  : 
But  since  love  lightly  catches,  where  it 

can, 

At  any  means  to  make  itself  approved, 
And  since  the  singer  may  to  song  confide 
What  the  man  dares  not  trust  to  simple 

speech, 

I,  therefore,  so  to  ease  two  hearts  at  once, 
And  signify  our  favor  unto  both, 
Will  to  our  well-beloved  minstrels  give 
No  theme  less  sweet  than  Love  :    for, 

surely,  he 
That  loves  the  best,  will  sing  the  best, 

and  bear 


The   prize  from    all."     Therewith  the 

Landgrave  rose, 
And  all  the  murmuring  Hall  was  hushed 

to  hear. 

"  0  well-beloved  minstrels,  in  my  mind 
I  do  embrace  you  all,  and  heartily 
Bid  you  a  lavish  welcome  to  these  halls. 
Oft  have  you  flooded  this  fair  space  with 

song, 
Waked  these  voiced  walls,   and  vocal 

made  yon  roof, 

As  waves  of  surging  music  lapped  against 
Its  resonant  rafters.     Often  have  your 

strains 

Ennobled  souls  of  true  nobility, 
Rapt  by  your  perfect  pleadings  in  the 

cause 

Of  all  things  pure  unto  a  purer  sense 
Of  their  exceeding  loveliness.     No  power 
Is  subtler  o'er  the  spirit  of  man  than 

Song  — 
Sweet  echo  of  great  thoughts,  that,  in 

the  mind 

Of  him  who  hears  congenial  echoes  wak- 
ing. 

Remultiplies  the  praise  of  what  is  good. 
Song  cheers  the  emulous  spirit  to  the 

top 
Of  Virtue's  rugged  steep,  from  whence, 

all  heights 
Of  human  worth  attained,   the  mortal 

may 

Conjecture  of  God's1  unattainable, 
Which  is  Perfection.  —  Faith,  with  her 

sisters  twain 

Of  Hope  and  Charity,  ye  oft  have  sung, 
And  loyal  Truth  have  lauded,  and  have 

wreathed 

A  coronal  of  music  round  the  brows 
Of    stainless   Chastity ;    nor  less   have 

praised 
High-minded  Valor,  in  whose  righteous 

hand 

Burns  the  great  sword  of  flaming  Forti- 
tude, 
And  have  stirred  up  to  deeds  of  high 

emprize 
Our  noble  knights  (yourselves  among  the 

noblest) 
Whether  on  German  soil  for  me,  their 

prince, 
Fighting,  or  in  the  Land  of  Christ  for 

God. 

Sing  ye  to-day  another  theme  ;  to-day 
Within  our  glad  society  we  see, 
To  fellowship  of  loving  friends  restored, 


280 


TANNHAUSER; 


A  long-missed  face ;  and  hungerly  our 

ears 

Wait  the  melodious  murmurs  of  a  harp 
That  wont  to  feed  them  daintily.     W  hat 

drew 

Our  singer  forth,  and  led  the  fairest  light 
Of  all  our  galaxy  to  swerve  astray 
From  his  fixed  orbit,  and  what  now  re- 

splirivs, 

After  deflection  long,  our  errant  orb, 
Implies  a  secret  that  the  subtle  power 
Of  Song,  perchance,  may  solve.     Be  then 

your  thriin' 

As  universal  as  the  heart  of  man, 
Giving  you  scope  to  touch  its  deepest 

depths, 
Its  highest  heights,  and  reverently  to 

explore 

Its  mystery  of  mysteries.  Sing  of  Love  : 
Tell  us,  ye  noble  poets,  from  what  source 
Springs  the  prime  passion  ;  to  what  goal 

it  tends  ! 
Sing  it  how  brave,  how  beautiful,  how 

bright, 

In  essence  how  ethereal,  in  effect 
How  palpable,  how  human  yet  divine. 
Up  !  up  !  loved  singers,  smite  into  the 

chords, 

The  lists  are  opened,  set  your  lays  in  rest, 
And  who  of  Love  best  chants  the  perfect 

praise, 

Him  shall  Elizabeth  as  conqueror  hail 
And  round  his  royal  temples  bind  the 

bays. " 

He  said,  and  sat.     And  from  the  middle- 
hall 

Four  pages,  bearers  of  the  blazoned  urn 
That  held  the  name-scrolls  of  the  listed 

bards, 

Moved  to  Elizabeth.  Daintily  her  hand 
Dipped  in  the  bowl,  and  one  drawn 

scroll  delivered 

Back  to  the  pages,  who,  perusing,  cried  : 
"Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Willow-brook,— 
begin." 

Up  rose  the  gentle  singer  —  he  whose 

lays, 

Melodious-melancholy,  through  the  Land 
Live  to  this  day  —  and,  fair  obeisance 

made, 
Assumed  his  harp  and  stood  in  act  to 

sing. 

Awhile,  his  dreamy  fingers  o'er  the  chords 
Wandered  at  will,  and  to  the  roof  was 

turned 


His  meditative  face  ;  till,  suddenly, 
A  soft  light  from  his  spiritual  eyes 
Broke,  and  his  canticle  he  thus  began  :  — 

"  Love  among  the  saints  of  God, 
Love  within  the  hearts  of  men, 
Love  in  every  kindly  sod 
That  breeds  a  violet  in  the  glen  ; 
Love  in  heaven,  and  Love  on  earth, 
•  Love  in  all  the  amorous  air  ; 
Whence   comes   Love?   ah!   tell   inn 

where 

Had  such  a  gracious  Presence  birth  ? 
Lift  thy  thoughts  to  Him,  all-knowing, 
In  the  hallowed  courts  above  ; 
From  His  throne,  forever  flowing, 
Springs  the  fountain  of  all  Love  : 
Down  to  earth  the  stream  descending 
Meets  the  hills,  and  murmurs  then,    , 
In  a  myriad  channels  wending, 
Through  the  happy  haunts  of  men. 
Blessed  ye,  earth's  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, 

Love  among  you  flowing  free  ; 
Guard,  oh  !  guard  its  sacred  waters, 
Tend  on  them  religiously  : 
Let  them  through  your  hearts  steal 

sweetly, 

With  the  Spirit,  wise  and  bland, 
Minister  unto  them  meetly, 
Touch  them  not  with  carnal  hand. 

"  Maiden,  fashioned  so  divinely, 
Whom  I  worship  from  afar, 
Smile  thou  on  my  soul  benignly 
Sweet,  my  solitary  star  : 
Gentle  harbinger  of  gladness, 
Still  be  with  me  on  the  way ; 
Only  soother  of  my  sadness, 
Always  near,  though  far  away  : 
Always  near,  since  first  upon  me 
Fell  thy  brightness  from  above, 
And  my  troubled  heart  within  me 
Felt  the  sudden  flow  of  Love  ; 
At  thy  sight  that  gushing  river 
Paused,  and  fell  to  perfect  rest, 
And  the  ]>ool  of  Love  forever 
Took  thy  image  to  its  breast. 

•"  Let  me  keep  my  passion  purely, 
Guard  its  waters  free  from  blame, 
Hallow  Love,  as  knowing  surely 
It  returneth  whence  it  came  ; 
From  all  channels,  good  or  evil, 
Love,  to  its  pure  source  enticed, 
Finds  its  own  immortal  level 
In  the  charity  of  Christ. 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


281 


"  Ye  who  hear,  behold  the  river, 
Whence  it  cometh,  whither  goes ; 
Glory  be  to  God,  the  Giver, 
From  whose  grace  the  fountain  flows, 
Flows  and  spreads  through  all  creation, 
Counter-charm  of  every  curse, 
Love,  the  waters  of  Salvation, 
Flowing  through  the  universe  !  " 

And  still  the  rapt  bard,  though  his  voice 

had  ceased, 
And  all  the  Hall  had  murmured  into 

praise, 
Pursued  his  plaintive  theme  among  the 

chords, 
Blending  with  instinct  fine  the  intricate 

throng 
Of  thoughts  that  flowed  beneath  his  touch 

to  find 

Harmonious  resolution.  As  he  closed, 
Tannhauser  rising,  fretted  with  delay, 
Sent  flying  fingers  o'er  the  strings,  and 

sang :  — 

"  Love  be  my  theme  !    Sing  her  awake, 
My  harp,  for  she  hath  tamely  slept 
In  Wolfram's  song,  a  stagnant  lake 
O'er  which  a  shivering  star  hath  crept. 

"  Awake,  dull  waters,  from  your  sleep, 
Rise,  Love,  from  thy  delicious  well, 
A  fountain  !  —  yea,  but  flowing  deep 
With  nectar  and  with  hydromel  ; 

"  With  gurgling  murmurs  sweet,  that 

teach 

My  soul  a  sleep-distracting  dream, 
Till  on  the  marge  I  lie,  and  reach 
My  longing  lips  towards  the  stream  ; 

"  Whose  waves  leap  upwards  to  the 

brink 

With  drowning  kisses  to  invite 
And  drag  me,  willing,  down  to  drink 
Delirious  draughts  of  rare  Delight ; 

"  Who  careless  drink,  as  knowing  well 
The  happy  pastime  shall  not  tire, 
•    For  Love  is  inexhaustible, 
And  all-unfailing  my  Desire. 


"  Love's  fountain-marge  is  fairly  spread 
With  every  incense-flower  that  blows, 
With  flossy  sedge,  and  moss  that  grows 
For  fervid  limbs  a  dewy  bed  ; 


"  And  fays  and  fairies  flit  and  wend 
To  keep  the  sweet  stream  flowing  free, 
And  on  Love's  languid  votary 
The  little  elves  delighted  tend  ; 

"  And  bring  him  honey-dews  to  sip, 
Rare  balms  to  cool  him  after  play, 
Or  with  sweet  unguents  smooth  away 
The  kiss-crease  on  his  ruffled  lip ; 

"  And  lily  white  his  limbs  they  lave, 
And  roses  in  his  cheeks  renew, 
That  he,  refreshed,  return  to  glue 
His  lips  to  Love's  caressent  wave  ; 

"  And  feel,  in  that  immortal  kiss, 
His  mortal  instincts  die  the  death, 
And  human  fancy  fade  beneath 
The  taste  of  unimagined  bliss ! 


"  Thus,  gentle  audience,  since  your  ear 
Best  loves  a  metaphoric  lay, 
Of  mighty  Love  I  warble  here 
In  figures,  such  as  Fancy  may  : 

"  Now  know  ye  how  of  Love  I  think 
As  of  a  fountain,  failing  never, 
On  whose  soft  marge  I  lie,  and  drink 
Delicious  draughts  of  Joy  forever. " 

Abrupt  he  ceased,  and  sat.     And  for  a 

space, 

No  longer  than  the  subtle  lightning  rests 
Upon  a  sultry  cloud  at  eventide, 
The  Princess  smiled,  and  on  her  parted 

lips 

Hung  inarticulate  applause  ;  but  she 
Sudden  was  'ware  that  all  the  hall  was 

mute 
With   blank   disapprobation ;    and  her 

smile 
Died,  and  vague  fear  was  quickened  in 

her  heart 
As  Walter  of  the  Heron-chase  began  :  — 

"  0  fountain  ever  fair  and  bright, 
He  hath  beheld  thee,  source  of  Love, 
Who  sung  thee  springing  from  above, 
Celestial  from  the  founts  of  Light ; 

"  But  he  who  from  thy  waters  rare 
Hath  thought  to  drain  a  gross  delight, 
Blind  in  his  spiritual  sight, 
Hath  ne'er  beheld  thee,  fountain  fair  ! 


282 


TAXXHAUSER; 


' '  Hath  never  seen  the  silver  glow 
Of  thy  glad  waves,  crystalline  clear, 
Hath  never  heard  within  li: 
The  music  of  thy  murmurous  flow. 

"  The  essence  of  all  Good  thou  art, 
Thy  waters  are  immortal  Kutli, 
Thy  murmurs  are  the  voice  of  Truth, 
And  music,  in  the  human  heart : 

"  Thou  yieldest  Faith  that  soars  on 

high, 

And  Sympathy  that  dwells  on  earth  ; 
The  tender  trust  in  human  worth, 
The  hope  that  lives  beyond  the  sky. 

"  Oh  !  waters  of  the  living  Word, 
Oh  !  fair  vouchsafed  us  from  above, 
Oh  !  fountain  of  immortal  Love, 
What  song  of  thee  ere  while  I  heard  ! 

"  Learn,  sacrilegious  bard,  from  me 
How  all  ignoble  was  thy  strain, 
That  sought  with  trivial  song  to  stain 
The  fountain  of  Love's  purity  ; 

"That  fountain  thou  hast  never  found, 
And  shouldst  thou  come  with  lips  of 

fire 

To  slake  the  thirst  of  brute  Desire, 
'T  would   shrink  and  shrivel  to   the 

ground : 

"  Who  seeks  in  Love's  pure  stream 

to  lave 

His  gross  heart,  finds  damnation  near  ; 
Who  laves  in  Love  his  spirit  clear 
Shall  win  Salvation  from  the  wave." 

And  now  again,  as  when  the  plaintive  lay 
Of  Wolfram  warbled  to  harmonious  close, 
The  crowd  grew  glad  with  plaudits  ;  and 

again 
Tannhauser,  ruffled,  rose  his  height,  and 

smote 
Rude  in  the  chords  his  prelude  of  reply :  — 

"  What  Love  is  this  that  melts  with 

Ruth, 
Whose   murmurs   are   the    voice   of 

Truth  ? 

Ye  dazed  singers,  cease  to  dream, 
And  learn  of  me  your  human  theme  : 
Of  that  great  Passion  at  whose  feet 
The  vassal-world  lies  low, 
Of  Love  the  mighty,  Love  the  sweet, 
I  sing,  who  reigus  below  ; 


Who  makes  men  fierce,  tame,  wild,  or 

kind, 

Sovran  of  every  mood, 
Who  rules  the  heart,   and  rules  the 

mind, 

And  courses  through  the  blood  : 
Slave  of  that  lavish  Power  I  sing, 
Dispenser  of  all  good, 
Whose  pleasure-fountain  is  the  spring 
Of  sole  beatitude. 

"  Sing  ye  of  Love  ye  ne'er  possessed 
In  wretched  tropes  —  a  vain  employ- 
ment ! 

I  sing  the  passion  in  my  breast, 
And  know  Love  only  in  Enjoyment." 

To  whom,  while  all  the  rustling  hall  was 

moved 

With  stormy  indignation,  stern  uprose, 
Sharp  in  retort,  Sir  Wilfrid  of  the  Hills  : 

"  Up,  minstrels  !  rally  to  the  cry 

Of  outraged  Love  and  Loyalty ; 

Drive  on  this  slanderer,  all  the  throng, 

And  slay  him  in  a  storm  of  song. 

0  lecher  !  shall  I  sing  to  thee 

Of  Love's  untainted  purity, 

Of  simple  Faith,  and  tender  Ruth, 

Of  Chastity  and  loyal  Truth  ? 

As  well  sing  Day's  resplendent  birth 

To  the  blind  mole  that  delves  the  earth, 

As  seek  from  gross  hearts,  sloughed  in 

sin, 

Approval  of  pure  Love  to  win  ! 
Rather  from  thee  I'll  wring  applause 
For  Love,  the  Avenger  of  his  cause  ; 
Great  Love,  the  chivalrous  and  strong, 
To  whose  wide  grasp  all  arms  belong, 
The  lance,  the  battle-axe,  and  thong,  — 
And  eke  the  mastery  in  song. 

"  Love  in  my  heart  in  all  the  pride 
Of  kinghood  sits,  and  at  his  side, 
To  do  the  bidding  of  his  lord, 
Martial  Valor  holds  the  sword  ; 
He  strikes  for  Honor,  in  the  name 
Of  Virtue  and  fair  woman's  fame, 
And  bids  me  shed  my  dearest  blood 
To  venge  aspersed  maidenhood  : 
Who  soils  her  with  licentious  lie, 
Him  will  I  hew  both  hip  and  thigh, 
Or  in  her  cause  will  dearly  die. 
But  thou,  who  in  thy  Ha.sliv  song 
Hast  sought  to  do  ail  Honor  wrong, 
Pass  on,  —  I  will  not  stoop  my  crest 
To  smite  thee,  nor  lay  lance  in  rest. 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


283 


Thy  brawling  words,  of  riot  born, 
Are  worthy  only  of  my  scorn  ; 
Thus  at  thy  ears  this  song  I  fling, 
Which  in  thy  heart  may  plant  its  sting, 
If  ruined  Conscience  yet  may  wring 
Remorse  from  such  a  guilty  thing  " 

Scarce  from  his  lips  had  parted  the  last 

word 
When,  through  the  rapturous  praise  that 

rang  around, 
Fierce  from  his  seat,  uprising,  red  with 

rage, 
With    scornful    lip,    and    contumelious 

eye, 
Tannhauser  clanged  among  the  chords, 

and  sang  : 

"  Floutest  thou  me,  thou  grisly  Bard  ? 
Beware,  lest  I  the  just  reward 
On  thy  puffed  insolence  bestow, 
And  cleave   thee  with*my  falchion's 

blow,  — 

When  I  in  song  have  laid  thee  low. 
I  serve  a  Mistress  mightier  far 
Than  tinkling  rill,  or  twinkling  star, 
And,  as  in  my  great  Passion's  glow 
Thy  passion-dream  will  melt  like  snow, 
So  I,  Love's  champion,  at  her  call, 
Will  make  thee  shrink  in  field  or  hall, 
And  roll  before  me  like  a  ball. 

"Thou  pauper-minded  pedant  dim, 
Thou  starveling-soul,  lean  heart  and 

grim, 
Wouldst  thou   of   Love  the    praises 

hymn  ? 

Then  let  the  gaunt  hyena  howl 
In  praise  of  Pity  ;  let  the  owl 
Whoop  the  high  glories  of  the  noon, 
And  the   hoarse  chough  becroak  the 

moon  ! 
What  canst  thou  prate  of  Love  ?    I 

trow 

She  never  graced  thy  open  brow, 
Nor  flushed  thy  cheek,  nor  blossomed 

fair 

Upon  thy  parted  lips  ;  nor  e'er 
Bade  unpent  passion  wildly  start 
Through  the  forced  portals  of  thy  heart 
To  stream  in  triumph  from  thine  eye, 
Or  else  delicious  death  to  die 
On  other  lips,  in  sigh  on  sigh. 

"  Of  Love,  dispenser  of  all  bliss, 

Of  Love,  that  crowns  me  with  a  kiss, 

I  here  proclaim  me  champion-knight  ; 


And  in  her  cause  will  dearly  fight 
With  sword  or  song,  in  hall  or  plain, 
And  make  the  welkin  ring  again 
With  my  fierce  blows,  or  fervent  strain. 
But  for  such  Love  as  thou  canst  feel, 
Thou  wisely  hast  abjured  the  steel, 
Averse  to  lay  thy  hand  on  hilt, 
Or  in  her  honor  ride  a  tilt  : 
Tame  Love   full  tamely  may'st  thou 

jilt, 
And  keep  bone  whole,  and  blood  un- 

spilt." 

Out   flushed  Sir  Wilfrid's  weapon,  and 

outleapt 

From  every  angry  eye  a  thousand  darts 
Of  unsheathed  indignation,  and  a  shout 
Went  up  among  the  rafters,  and  the  Hall 
Swayed  to  and  fro  with  tumult ;  till  the 

voice 
Of  our  liege  lord  roared  "  Peace  !  "  and, 

midst  the  clang 

Of  those  who  parted  the  incensed  bards, 
Sounded  the  harp  of  Wolfram.     Calm 

he  stood, 

He  only  calm  of  all  the  brawling  crowd, 
Which  yet,   as   is   its  wont,   contagion 

caught 

From  neighboring  nobleness,  and  a  still- 
ness fell 
On  all,  and  in  the  stillness  soft  he  sang  : 

"  0,  from  your  sacred  seats  look  down, 
Angels  and  ministers  of  good  ; 
With  sanctity  our  spirits  crown, 
And  crush  the  vices  of  the  blood ! 

' '  Open  our  hearts  and  set  them  free , 
That  heavenly  light  may  enter  in  ; 
And  from  this  fair  society 
Obliterate  the  taint  of  sin. 

"Thee,  holy  Love,  I  bid  arise 
Propitious  to  my  votive  lay  ; 
Shine  thou  upon  our  darkened  eyes, 
And  lead  us  on  the  perfect  way  ; 

"  As,  in  the  likeness  of  a  Star, 
Thou  once  arosest,  guidance  meet, 
And  led'st  the  sages  from  afar 
To  sit  at  holy  Jesu's  feet : 

"So  guide  us,  safe  from  Satan's  snares, 
Shine  out,  sweet  Star,  around,  above, 
Till  we  have  scaled  the  mighty  stairs, 
And  reached  thy  mansions,  Heavenly 
Love  ! " 


284 


TANNHAUSER; 


Then,  while  great  shouts  went   up  of 

"Give  the  prize 
TM    Wolfram,"    It-apt   Tannhauser   from 

his  seat,          \ 
Fierce  passion  flaming  from  his  lustrous 

orbs. 

•\inl,  as  a  sinner,  desperate  to  add 
Depth  to  damnation  by  one  latest  crime, 
Dies  boastful  of  his  blasphemies  —  even 

so, 

Tannhauser,  conscious  of  the  last  disgrace 
Incurred  by  such  song  in  such  company, 
Intent  to  vaunt  the  vastness  of  his  sin, 
Thus,  as  in  ecstasy,  the  song  renewed  : 

"Goddess of  Beauty,  thee  1  hymn, 
And  ever  worship  at  thy  shrine  ; 
Thou,  who  on  mortal  senses  dim 
Descending,  makest  man  divine. 

"  Who   hath   embraced  thee   on  thy 

throne, 

And  pastured  on  thy  royal  kiss, 
He,  happy,  knows,  and  knows  alone, 
Love's  full  beatitude  of  bliss. 

"  Grim  bards,  of  Love  who  nothing 

know, 
Now  cease  the  unequal  strife  between 

us  ; 

Dare  as  I  dared  ;  to  Hbrsel  go, 
And  taste  Love  on  the  lips  of  Venus." 

Uprose  on  every  side  and  rustled  down 
The   affrighted    dames ;    and,    like   the 

shuddering  crowd 

Of  party-colored  leaves  that  flits  before 
The  gust  of  mid  October,  all  at  once 
A  hundred  jewelled  shoulders,  huddling, 

swept 
The  hall,  and  slanted  to  the  doors,  and 

fled 

Before  the  storm,  which  now  from  shag- 
gy brows 
'Gan   dart    indignant   lightnings.     One 

alone 

Of  all  that  awe-struck  womanhood  re- 
mained, 
The   Princess.     She,   a  purple  harebell 

frail, 
That,   swathed  with   whirlwind,   to  the 

bleak  rock  clings 

When  half  a  forest  falls  before  the  blast, 
Rooted  in  utter  wretchedness,-  and  robed 
In  mockery  of  splendid  state,  still  sat ; 
Still  watched  the  waste  that  widened  in 
her  life  ; 


And  looked  as  one  that  in  a  night  mar* 

hangs 

Upon  an  edge  of  horror,  while  from  be- 
neath 

The  creeping  billow  of  calamity 
Sprays  all  hi.s  hair  with  cold  ;  but  hand 

or  foot 
He  may  not  move,  because  the  formless 

Fear 
Gapes  vast  behind  him.     Grief  within 

the  void 
Of  her  stark  eyes  stood  tearless  :  terror 

blanched 
Her    countenance ;    and,    over    cloudy 

bi  ows, 
The   shaken   diamond   made  a  restless 

light, 
And  trembled  as  the  trembling  star  that 

hangs 
O'er  Cassiopeia  i'  the  windy  north. 

But  now,  from  farthest  end  to  end  of  all 
The  sullen  movement  swarming  under- 
neath, 
Uprolled  deep  hollow  groans  of  growing 

wrath. 
And ,  where  erewhile  in  rainbow  crescent 

ranged 
The  bright-eyed  beauties  of  the  court, 

fast  thronged 
Faces  inflamed  with  wrath,  that  rose  and 

fell 

Tumultuously  gathering  from  between 
Sharp-slanting  lanes  of  steel.     For  every 

sword 
Flashed  bare  upon  a  sudden  ;  and  over 

these, 
Through   the   wide  bursten    doors    the 

sinking  sun 
Streamed  lurid,  lighting  up  that  steely 

sea ; 
Which,  spotted  white  with  .foamy  plumes, 

and  ridged 
With  glittering  iron,   clashed   together 

and  closed 
About    Tannhauser.      Careless    of    the 

wrath 
Roused  by  his  own  rash  song,  the  singer 

stood  ; 

Rapt  in  remembrance,  or  by  fancy  fooled 
A  visionary  Venus  to  pursue, 
With  eyes  that  roamed  in  rapture  the 

blank  air. 

Until  the  sharp  light  of  a  hundred  swords 
Smote  on  the  fatal  trance,  and  scattered 

all 
Its  fervid  fascination.     Swift  from  sheath 


OR,   THE   BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


285 


Then  leapt  the  glaive  and  glittered  in 

his  hand, 

And  warily,  with  eye  upon  the  watch, 
Receding  to  the  mighty  main  support 
That,  from  the  centre,  propped  the  pon- 
derous roof, 
There,,  based  against  the  pillar,  fronting 

full 

His  sudden  foes,  he  rested  resolute, 
Waiting  assault. 

But,  hollow  as  a  bell, 
That  tolls  for  tempest  from  a  storm-clad 

tower, 
Rang  through    the   jangling   shock   of 

arms  and  men 
The  loud  voice  of  the  Landgrave.     Wide 

he  swept 
The  solemn  sceptre,   crying  "Peace!" 

then  said : 

"  Ye  Lieges  of  Thuringia  !   whose  just 

scorn, 
In  judgment  sitting  on  your  righteous 

brows, 
Would  seem  to  have  forecast  the  dubious 

doom 

Awaiting  our  decision  ;  ye  have  heard, 
Not  wrung  by  torture  from  reluctant  lips, 
Nor  yet  breathed  forth  with  penitential 

pain 
In  prayer  for  pardon,   nay,  but  rather 

fledged 
And  barbed  with  boastful  insolence,  such 

a  crime 
Confest,  as  turns  to  burning  coals  of 

wrath 

The  dewy  eyes  of  Pity,  nor  to  Hope 
One  refuge  spares,  save  such  as  rests 

perchance 
Within  the   bounteous    bosom   of    the 

Church  ; 

Who,  caring  for  the  frailty  of  her  flock, 
Holds  me  rcy  measureless  as  heaven  is  high. 
Shuddering,  ourselves  have  listened  to 

what  breaks 
All  bonds  that  bound  to  this  unhappy 

man 

The  coveuaffted  courtesies  of  knights, 
The  loyalties  of  lives  by  faith  knit  fast 
In  spiritual  communion'.     What  behoves, 
After  deliberation,  to  award 
In  sentence,  I  to  your  high  council  leave, 
Undoubting.     What    may   mitigate    in 

aught 

The  weight  of  this  acknowledged  infamy 
Weigh    with   due    balance.      What    to 

justice  storu 


Mild-minded  mercy  yet  may  reconcile 
Search  inly.     Not  with  rashness,  not  in 

wrath, 

Invoking  from  the  right  hand  of  high  God 
His  dread  irrevocable  angel,  Death  ; 
Yet  not  unwary  how  one  spark  of  hell, 
If  unextinguished,   down  the  night  of 

tune 
May,  like  the  wreckers'  beacon  from  the 

reefs, 

Lure  many  to  destruction  :  nor  indeed 
Unmindful  of  the  doom  by  fire  or  steel 
This  realm's  supreme  tribunals  have  re- 
served 
For  those  that,  dealing  in  damnation, 

hold 
Dark  commerce  with  the  common  foe  of 

man. 
Weigh  you  in  all  its  circumstance  this 

crime : 
And,    worthily   judging,    though    your 

judgment  be 

As  sharp  as  conscience,  be  it  as  con- 
science clear." 

He  ended  :  and  a  bitter  interval 
Of  silence  o'er  the  solemn  hall  congealed, 
Like  frost  on  a  waste  water,  in  a  place 
Where  rocks  confront  each  other.     Mar- 
shalled round, 
Black-bearded    cheek    and    chin,    with 

hand  on  heft 
Bent  o'er  the  pommels  of  their  planted 

swords 

A  dreary  cirque  of  faces  ominous. 
The  sullen  barons  on  each  other  stared 
Significant.     As,  ere  the  storm  descends 
Upon  a   Druid  grove,    the   great   trees 

stand 
Looking  one  way,  and  stiller  than  their 

wont, 
Until    the  thunder,    rolling,    frees   the 

wind 

That  rocks  them  altogether  ;  even  so, 
That  savage  circle  of  grim-gnarled  mun, 
Awhile  in  silence  storingstormy  thoughts. 
Stood  breathless;  till  a  murmur  roved 

them  all, 
And  louder  growing,  and  louder,  burs* 

at  last  . 

To  a  universal  irrepressible  roar 
Of  voices   roaring,    "  Let  him  die   the 

death  ! " 
And,  in  that  roar  released,  a  hundred 

swords 
Rushed  forward,  and  in  narrowing  circle 

sloped 


286 


TANNHAUSER; 


Sharp  rims  of  shining  horror  round  the 

doomed, 
1'inhiunted    minstrel.     Then  a  piteous 

cry; 
And  from   the   purple  baldachin  down 

.sprang 
The  Princess,  gleaming  like  a  ghost,  and 

slid 
Among  the  swords,  and  standing  in  the 

midst 

Swept  a  wild  arm  of  prohibition  forth. 
Cowering,    recoiled    the  angry,    baffled 

surge, 

Leaving  on  either  side  a  horrid  hedge 
Of  rifted  glare,   as  when  the  Red  Sea 

waves 
Hung  heaped   and  sundered,   ere  they 

roaring  fell 
On  Egypt's  chariots.     So  there  came  a 

hush  ; 
And  in  the  hush  her  voice,  heavy  with 

scorn  : 

"Or  shall  I  call  you  men?  or  beasts? 

who  seem 
No  nobler  than  the  bloodhound  and  the 

wolf 
Which  scorn  to  prey  upon  their  proper 

kind  ! 

Christians  1  will  not  call  you  !  who  de- 
fraud 

That  much -misapprehended  holy  name 
Of  reverence  due  by  such  a  deed  as,  done, 
Will  clash  against  the  charities  of  Christ, 
And  make  a  marred  thing  and  a  mockery 
Of  the  fair  face  of  Mercy.     You  dull 

hearts, 

And  hard  !    have  ye  no  pity  for  your- 
selves ? 
For  man  no  pity  ?  man  whose  common 

cause 
Is  shamed  and  saddened  by  the  stain 

that  falls 

Fpon  a  noble  nature  !  You  blind  hands, 
Thrust  out  so  fast  to  smite  a  fallen  friend  ! 
Did  ye  not  all  conspire,  whilst  yet  he 

stood 
The  stateliest  soul   among  you,  to  set 

forth 
And  fix  him  in  the  foremost  ranks  of 

men  ? 
Content  that  he,  your  best,  should  bear 

the  brunt, 
And  head  the  van  against  the  scornful 

fiend 
That  will  not  waste  his  weapons  on  the 

herd, 


But  saves  them  for  the  noblest      And 

shall  IIH1 
Triumph  through  you,  that  triumph  in 

the  shame 
Of  this  eclipse  that  blots  your  brightest 

out, 
And  leaves  you  dark  in  his  extinguished 

light  ? 
0,  who  that  lives  but  hath  within  his 

heart 
Some  cause  to  dread  the  suddenness  of 

death  ? 

And  God  is  merciful ;  and  suffers  us, 
Even  for  our  sins'  sake  ;  and  doth  spare 

us  time, 
Time  to  grow  ready,  time  to  take  fare- 

well ! 

And  sends  us  monitors  and  ministers  — 
Old  age,  that  steals  the  fulness  from  the 

veins  ; 
And  griefs,  that  take  the  glory  from  the 

eyes; 
And  pains,  that  bring  us  timely  news  of 

death ; 

And  tears,  that  teach  us  to  be  glad  of  him. 
For  who  can  take  farewell  of  all  his  sins 
On  such  a  sudden  summons  to  the  grave  ? 
Against  high  Heaven  hath  this  man 

sinned,  or  you  ? 
0,   if   it   be  against  high   Heaven,   to 

Heaven 

Remit  the  compt !  lest,  from  the  armory 
Of  the  Eternal  Justice  ye  pluck  down, 
Heedless,    that    bolt   the    Highest    yet 

withholds 
From  this  low-fallen  head,  —  how  fallen  ! 

how  low  ! 
Yet  not  so  fallen,  not  so  low  fallen,  but 

what 

Divine    Redemption,    reaching    every- 
where, 

May  reach  at  last  even  to  this  wretched- 
ness, 

And,  out  of  late  repentance,  raise  it  up 
With  pardon  into  peace." 

She  paused  :  she  touched, 
As  with  an  angel  s  finger,  him  whose 

pride 

Obdurate  now  had  yielded,  and  he  lay, 
Vanquished  by  Pity,  broken  at  her  feet. 
She,  lingering,  waited  answer,  but  none 

came 
Across  the  silence.    And  again  she  spake : 

"  0,  not  for  him  alone,  and  not  for  that 
Which  to  remember  now  makes  life  for 
me 


OK,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


2S7 


A  wilderness  of  homeless  griefs,  I  plead 
Before  you  ;   but,  0  Princes,  for  your- 
selves ; 

For  all  that  in  your  nobler  nature  stirs 
To  vindicate  Forgiveness  and  enlarge 
The   lovely   laws    of  Pity !     "Which  of 

you, 

Here  in  the  witness  of  all-judging  God, 
Stands   spotless  ?    Which   of    you   will 

boast  himself 

More  miserably  injured  by  this  man 
Than  I,  whose  heart  of  all  that  lived  in  it 
He  hath  untenanted  ?    0,  horrible  ! 
Unheard  of !  from  the  blessed  lap  of  life 
To  send  the  soul,  asleep  in  all  her  sins, 
Down  to  perdition  !     Be  not  yours  the 

hands 

To  do  this  desperate  wrong  in  sight  of  all 
The    ruthful    faces    of   the    Saints    in 
Heaven." 

She  passionately  pleading  thus,  her  voice 
Over  their  hearts  moved  like  that  earnest 

wind 
That,  laboring  long  against  some  great 

nigh  cloud, 

Sets  free,  at  last,  a  solitary  star, 
Then  sinks  ;  but  leaves  the  night  not  all 

forlorn 
Ere  the  soft  rain  o'ercomes  it. 

This  long  while 
Wolfram,   whose  harp  and  voice  were 

overborne 

By  burly  brawlers  in  the  turbulence 
That  shook  that  stormy  senate,   stood 

apart 
With  vainly-vigilant  eye,  and  writhen 

hands, 

All  in  mute  trouble  :  too  gentle  to  ap- 
prove, 
Too  gentle  to  prevent,  what  passed  :  and 

still 

Divided  in  himself  'twixt  sharpest  grief 
To  see  his  friend  so  fallen,  and  a  drear 
Strange  horror  of  the  crime  whereby  he 

fell. 
So,  like  a  headland  light  that  down  dark 

waves 
Shines  o'er  some  sinking  ship  it  fails  to 

save, 
Looked  the  pale  singer  down  the  lurid 

hall. 

But  when  the  pure  voice  of  Elizabeth 
Ceased,  and  clear-lighted  all  with  noble 

thoughts 
Her  face  glowed  as  an  angel's,  the  sweet 

Bard, 


Whose  generous  heart  had  scaled  with 

that  loved  voice 

Up  to  the  lofty  levels  where  it  ceased, 
Stood  forth,  and  from  the  dubious  silence 

caught 

And  carried  up  the  purpose  of  her  prayer ; 
And  drew  it  out,  and  drove  it  to  the 

heart, 
And  clenched  it  with  conviction  in  the 

mind, 
And  fixed  it  firm  in  judgment. 

From  deep  muse 
The   Landgrave   started,  toward   Tann- 

hauser  strode, 
And,   standing  o'er   him   with   an   eye 

wherein 

Salt  sorrow  and  a  moody  pity  gleamed, 
Spake  hoarse  of  utterance  : 

"  Arise  !  go  forth  ! 
Go  from  us,  mantled  in  the  shames  which 

make 

Thee,  stranger  whom  mine  eye  hence- 
forth abhors, 
The  mockery  of  the  man  I  loved,  and 

mourn. 
Go  from  these  halls  yet  holy  with  the 

voice 

Of  her  whose  intercession  for  thy  sake,  — 
If  any  sacred  sorrow  yet  survive 
All  ruined  virtues,  —  in  remorse  shall 

steep 
The  memory  of  her  wrongs.     For  thee 

remains 

One  hope,  unhappiest !  reject  it  not. 
There  goeth  a  holy  pilgrimage  to  Rome, 
Which  not  yet  from  the  borders  of  our 

land 
Is  parted  ;  pious  souls  and  meek,  whom 

thou 
Haply  may'st  join,   and  of  those  holy 

hands, 
Which  sole  have  power  to  bind  or  loose, 

receive 

Remission  of  thy  sin.     For  save  alone 
The  hand  of  Christ's  high  Vicar  upon 

earth 
A    hurt    so    heinous   what    may  heal  ? 

What  save 
A  soul  so  fallen  ?     Go  forth  upon  thy 

ways, 
Which  are  not  ours  :   for  we  no  more 

may  mix 
Congenial  minds  in  converse  sweet,  no 

more 

Together  pace  these  halls,  nor  ever  hear 
Thy  harp  as  once  when  all  was  pure  and 

glad, 


288 


TANNHAUSER; 


Among  the  days  which  have  been.  All 
thy  paths 

Henceforth  be  paths  of  penitence  and 
prayer, 

Whilst  over  ours  thy  memory  moving 
makes 

A  shadow,  and  a  silence  in  our  talk. 

Get  thee  from  hence,  0  all  that  now  re- 
mains 

Of  one  we  honored  !  Till  the  hand  that 
holds 

The  keys  of  heaven  hath  oped  for  thee 
the  doors 

Of  life  in  that  far  distance,  let  mine  eye 

S«e  thee  no  more.     Go  from  us  !  " 

Even  then, 
Even  whilst  he  spake,  like  some  sweet 

miracle, 
From  darkening  lands  that  glimmered 

through  the  doors 

Came,  faintly  heard  along  the  filmy  air 
That  bore  it  floating  near,  a  choral  chant 
Of  pilgrims  pacing  by  the  castle  wall  ; 
And    "  salvum  me  fac  Domine  "  they 

sung 

Sonorous,  in  the  ghostly  going  out 
Of  the  red-litten  eve  along  the  land. 

Then,  like  a  hand  across  the  heart  of 

him 
That  heard  it  moved  that  music  from 

afar, 
And    beckoned   forth   the    better   hope 

which  leads 

A  man's  life  up  along  the  rugged  road 
Of  high  resolve.     Tannhauser  moved,  as 

moves 

The  folded  serpent  smitten  by  the  spring 
And  stirred  with  sudden  sunlight,  when 

he  casts 

His  spotted  skin,  and,  renovated,  gleams 
With  novel  hues.     One   lingering  long 

look, 
Wild  with  remorse  and  vague  with  vast 

regrets, 

He  lifted  to  Elizabeth.     His  thoughts 
Were  then  as  those  dumb  creatures  in 

their  pain 
That  make  a  language  of  a  look.     He 

tossed 
Aloft  his  arms,  and  down  to  the  great 

doors 
With  drooped  brows  striding,  groaned 

"To  Rome,  to  Rome!" 
Whilst  the  deep  hall  behind  him  caught 

the  ory 


And  drove  it  clamorous  after  him,  from 

all 
Its  hollow  roofs  reverberating  "  Rome  !  " 

A  fleeting  darkness  through  the   lurid 

arch  ; 

A  flying  form  along  the  glare  beyond  ; 
And  he  was  gone.     The  scowling  Eve 

reached  out 

Across  the  hills  a  fiery  arm,  and  took 
Tanuhauser  to  her,  like  a  sudden  death. 

So  ended  that  great  Battle  of  the  Bards, 
Whereof  some  rumor  to  the  end  of  tiim- 
Will  echo  in  this  land. 

And,  voided  now 

Of  all  his  multitudes,  the  mighty  Hall, 
Dumb,  dismally  dispageanted,  laid  l«an- 
His  ghostly  galleries  to  the  mournful 

moon  ; 
And  Night  came  down,  and  Silence,  and 

the  twain 
Mingled  beneath  the  starlight.     Wheeled 

at  will 
The    flitter-winged    bat    round    lonely 

towers 
Where,    one    by  one,    from  darkening 

casements  died 
The  taper's  shine  ;  the  howlet  from  the 

hills 
Whooped  ;   and   Elizabeth,  alone   with 

Night 
And  Silence,  and  the  Ghost  of  her  slain 

youth, 
Lay  lost  among  the  ruins  of  that  day. 

As  when  the  buffeting  gusts,  that  adverse 

blow 

Over  the  Caribbean  Sea,  conspire 
Conflicting  breaths,  and,  savagely  begot, 
The  tierce  tornado  rotatory  wheels, 
Or  sweeps    centripetal,   or,    all    forces 

joined, 
Whirls  circling  o'er  the  maddened  waves, 

and  they 
Lift  up  their  foaming  backs  beneath  the 

keel 

Of  some  frail  vessel,  and,  careering  high 
Over  a  sunken  rock,  with  a  sudden 

plunge 
Confound  her,  —  stunned  and  strained, 

upon  the  peak 

Poising  one  moment,  ere  she  forward  fall 
To  float,  dishelmed,  a  wreck  upon  the 

waves  : 
So   rose,   engendered   by   what  furiou» 

blasU 


A    SUNKEN    ROCK,   WITH    A   SUDDEN    PLUNGE.  —  Page   2? 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


289 


Of  passion,  that  fell  hurricane  that  swept 
pjlizabeth  to  her  doom,  and  left  her  now 
A  helmless  hull  upon  the  savage  seas 
Of  life,  without  an  aim,  to  float  forlorn. 

Longwhile,    still   shuddering  from  the 

•  shock  that  jarred 

The  bases  of  her  being,  piteous  wreck 
Of  ruined  hopes,  upon  her  couch  she  lay, 
Of  life  and  time  oblivious ;  all  her  mind, 
Locked  in  a  rigid  agony  of  grief, 
Clasping,   convulsed,   its  unwept  woe  ; 

her  heart 
Writhing  and  riven  ;  and  her  burthened 

brain 
Blind  with  the   weight   of   tears  that 

would  not  flow. 
But  when,  at  last,  the  healing  hand  of 

Time 
Had  wrought  repair  upon  her  shattered 

frame ; 
And  those  unskilled  physicians  of  the 

mind  — 
Importunate,   fond    friends,    a  host  of 

kin  — 
Drew  her  perforce  from  solitude,   she 

passed 
Back  to. the  world,  and  walked  its  weary 

ways 
With  dull  mechanic  motions,   such  as 

make 

A  mockery  of  life.  .  Yet  gave  she  never, 
By  weeping  or  by  wailing,  outward  sign 
Of  that  great  inward  agony  that  she  bore ; 
For  she  was  not  of  those  whose  sternest 

sorrow 
Outpours  in  plaints,  or  weeps  itself  in 

dew ; 
Not  passionate  she,   nor  of  the  happy 

souls 
Whose  grief  comes  tempered  with  the 

gift  of  tears. 

So,    through  long  weeks  and  many  a 
weary  moon, 

Silent  and  self-involved,  without  a  sigh, 

She   suffered.     There,  whence   consola- 
tion comes, 

She  sought  it  —  at  the  foot  of  Jesu's 
cross, 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  Virgin-spouse, 

And   in   communion   with   the  blessed 
Saints. 

But   chief   for  him  she  prayed  whose 
grievous  sin 

Had  wrought  her  desolation ;    God  be- 
sought 

19 


To  touch  the  leprous  soul  and  make  it 

clean  ; 

And  sued  the  Heavenly  Pastor  to  recall 
The  lost  sheep,  wandered  from  the  pleas- 
ant ways, 
Back  to   the   pasture  of  the  paths  of 

peace. 
So  thrice  a  day,  what  time  the  blushing 

morn 
Crimsoned  the  orient  sky,  and  when  the 

sun 
Glared  from  mid-heaven  or  weltered  in 

the  west, 
Fervent  she  prayed  ;  nor  in  the  night 

forewent 
Her  vigils  ;  till  at  last  from  prayer  she 

drew 

A  calm  into  her  soul,  and  in  that  calm 
Heard  a  low  whisper  —  like  the  breeze 

that  breaks 
The   deep  peace   of  the  forest  ere  the 

chirp 

Of  earliest  bird  salutes  the  advent  Day  — 
Thrill  through  her,  herald  of  the  dawn 

of  Hope. 

Then  most  she   loved   from   forth  her 

leafy  tower 

Listless  to  watch  the  irrevocable  clouds 
Roll  on,  and  daylight  waste  itself  away 
Along  those  dreaming  woods,  whence 

evermore 
She  mused,    "  He  will    return "  ;   and 

fondly  wove 

Her  webs  of  wistful  fantasy  till  the  moon 
Was  high  in  heaven,   and  in  its  light 

she  kneeled, 
A  faded   watcher    through    the  weary 

night, 
A    meek,    sweet    statue    at   the  silver 

shrines, 
In  deep,  perpetual  prayer  for  him  she 

loved. 
And  from    the    pitying    Sisterhood   of 

Saints 
Haply  that  prayer  shall  win  an  angel 

down 

To  be  his  unseen  minister,  and  draw 
A  drowning  conscience  from  the  deeps 

of  Hell. 

Time  put  his  sickle  in  among  the  days. 
Blithe  Summer  came,  and  into  dimples 

danced 

The  fair  and  fructifying  Earth,  anon 
Showering  the  gathered  guerdon  of  her 

play 


290 


TANNHAUSER; 


Into  the  lap  of  Autumn  ;  Autumn  stored 
The  gift,  piled  ready  to  the  palsied  hand 
Of  blind  and  begging  Winter  ;  and  when 

he 
Closed  his  well-provendered  days,  Spring 

lightly  came 
And  scattered  sweets  upon  his  sullen 

grave. 
And  twice  the  seasons  passed,  the  sisters 

three 

Doingglad  service  fortheir hoary  brother, 
And  twice  twelve  moons  had  waxed  and 

waned,  and  twice 
The  weary  world  had  pilgrimed  round 

the  sun, 
When  from  the  outskirts  of  the  land 

there  came 

Rumor  of  footsore  penitents  from  Rome 
Returning,  jubilant  of  remitted  sin. 

So  chanced  it,  on  a  silent  April  eve 
The  westering  sun  along  the  Wartburg 

vale 

Shot  level  beams,  and  into  glory  touched 
The  image  of  Madonna, —  where  it  stands 
Hard  by  the  common  way  that  climbs  the 

steep,  — 

The  image  of  Madonna,  and  the  face 
Of  meek  Elizabeth  turned  towards  the 

Queen 

Of  Sorrows,  sorrowful  in  patient  prayer ; 
When,  through  the  silence  and  the 

sleepy  leaves, 
A  breeze  blew  up  the  vale,  and  on  the 

breeze 

Floated  a  plaintive  music.  She  that  heard, 
Trembled ;  the  prayer  upon  her  parted  lips 
Suspended  hung,  and  one  swift  hand  she 

pressed 
Against    the    palpitating    heart   whose 

throbs 
Confused  the  cunning  of  her  ears.     Ah 

God! 

Was  this  the  voice  of  her  returning  joy  ? 
The  psalm  of  shriven  pilgrims  to  their 

homes 
Returning  ?     Ay !   it  swells  upon  the 

breeze 
The  "  Nunc  Dimittis  "  of  glad  souls  that 

sue 

After  salvation  seen  to  part  in  peace. 
Then  up  she  sprung,  and  to  a  neighbor- 
ing copse 
Swift  as  a  startled  hind,  when  the  ghostly 

moon 

Draws  sudden  o'er  the  silvered  heather- 
bell. 


The  monstrous  shadow  of  a  cloud,  she 

sped  ; 
Pausing,   low-crouched,   within  a  maze 

of  shrubs, 
Whose  emerald  slivers  fringed  the  rugged 

way 
So  broad,  the  pilgrim's  garments  as  they 

passed 
Would  brush  the  leaves  that  hid  her. 

And  anon 
They  came  in  double  rank,  and  two  by 

two, 
With  cumbered  steps,  with  haggard  gait 

that  told 

Of  bodily  toil  and  trouble,  with  besoiled 
And   tattered  garments ;  nathlcss  with 

glad  eyes,  • 
Whence  looked  the  soul  disburthened  of 

her  sin, 
Climbing  the  rude  path,  two  by  two 

they  came. 

And  she,  that  watched  with  what  in- 
tensest  gaze 
Them  coming,   saw  old   faces  that  she 

knew, 
And  every  face  turned  skywards,  while 

the  lips 
Poured  out  the  heavenly   psalm,    and 

every  soul 

Sitting  seraphic  in  the  upturned  eyes 
With  holy  fervor  rapt  upon  the  song. 
And  still  they  came  and  passed,  and  still 

she  gazed ; 
And  still  she  thought,  "Now  comes  he!" 

and  the  chant 

Went  heavenwards,   and  the  filecl  pil- 
grims fared 
Beside  her,  till  their  tale  wellnigh  was 

told. 
Then  o'er  her  soul  a  shuddering  horror 

crept, 

And,  in  that  agony  of  mind  that  makes 
Doubt  more  intolerable  than  despair, 
With  sudden  hand  she  brushed  aside 

the  sprays, 
Andfrom  the  thicket  leaned  and  looked. 

The  last 

Of  all  the  pilgrims  stood  within  the  ken 
Of  her  keen  gaze,  —  save  him  all  scanned, 

and  he 
No  sooner  scanned  than  cancelled  from 

her  eyes 

By  vivid  lids  swept  down  to  lash  away 
Him    hateful,    being    other    than    she 

sought. 
So  for  a  space,  blind  with  dismay,  she 


OR,   THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


291 


But,  he  approaching,  from  the  thicket 

leapt, 
Clutched  with  wrung  hands  his  robe,  and 

gasped,  "The  Knight 
That  with  you  went,  returns  not  ? "     In 

his  psalm 
The  fervid  pilgrim  made  no  pause,  yet 


At  his  wild  questioner,  intelligent 

Of  her  demand,  and  shook  his  head  and 

passed. 
Then  she,  with  that  mute  answer  stabbed 

to  the  heart, 
Sprung  forward,  clutched  him  yet  once 

more,  and  cried, 
"In  Mary's  name,  and  in  the  name  of 

God, 
Received  the  knight  his  shrift  ? "     And, 

once  again, 
The  pilgrim,  sorrowful,  shook  his  head 

and  sighed, 
Sighed  in  the  singing  of  his  psalm,  and 

passed. 

Then  prone  she  fell  upon  her  face,  and 

prone 
Within  her  mind  Hope's  shattered  fabric 

fell,  — 

The  dear  and  delicate  fabric  of  frail  Hope 
Wrought  by  the  simple  cunning  of  her 

thoughts, 
That,   laboring  long,   through  many  a 

dreamy  day 

And  many  a  vigil  of  the  wakeful  night. 
Piecemeal  had  reared  it,  patiently,  with 

pain, 
From  out  the 


ruins  of  her  ancient  p< 
ace  !   that  never  shal 


jeace. 
shalt  re- 


0  ancient  Peace 

turn ; 

0  ruined  Hope  !  0  Fancy  !  over-fond, 
Futile  artificer  that  build  st  on  air, 
Marred  is  thy  handiwork,  and  thou  shalt 

please 
With  plastic  fantasies  her  soul  no  more. 

So  lay  she  cold  against  the  callous  ground, 
Her  pale  face  pillowed  on  a  stone,  her 

eyes 

Wide  open,  fixed  into  a  ghastly  stare 
That  knew  no  speculation  ;  for  her  mind 
Was  dark,  and  all  her  faculty  of  thought 
Compassionately  cancelled.     But  she  lay 
Not  in  the  embrace  of  loyal  Death,  who 

keeps 
His  bride  forever,  but  in  treacherous 

arms 
Of  Sleep  that,  sated,  will  restore  to  Grief 


Her,  snatched  a  sweet  space  from  his 

cruel  clutch, 

So  lay  she  cold  against  the  callous  ground, 
And  none  was  near  to  heed  her,  as  the 

sun, 
About   him   drawing    the    vast-skirted 

clouds, 
Went  down  behind  the  western  hill  to  die. 

Now  Wolfram,  when  the  rumor  reached 

his  ears 
That,  from  their  quest  of  saving  grace 

returned, 

The  pilgrims  all  within  the  castle-court 
Were  gathered,  flocked  about  by  happy 

friends,  . 

Passed  from  his  portal  swiftly,  and  ran 

out 
And  joined  the  clustering  crowd.     Full 

many  a  face, 
Wasted  and  wan,   he   recognized,    and 

clasped 
Full  many  a  lean  hand  clutching  at  his 

own, 
Of  those  who,  stretched  upon  the  grass, 

or  propped 
Against  the  bowlder-stones,  were  pressed 

about 

By  weeping  women,  clamorous  to  unbind 
Their    sandal-thongs     and    bathe    the 

bruised  feet. 
Then  up  and  down,  and  swiftly  through 

and  through, 
And  round  about,  skirting  the  crowd, 

he  hurried, 
With  greetings  fair  to  all ;   till,  rilled 

with  fear, 
Half -hopeless  of  his  quest,  yet  harboring 

hope, 
He  paused  perplexed  beside  the  castle 

gates. 
There,  at  his  side,  the  youngest  of  the 

train, 

A  blue-eyed  pilgrim  tarried,  and  to  him 
Turned  Wolfram  questioning  of  Tann- 

hauser's  fate, 
And  learnt  in  few  words  how,  his  sin 

pronounced 

Deadly  and  irremediable,  the  knight 
Had  faded  from  before  the  awful  face 
Of  Christ's  incensed  Vicar ;  and  none 

knew 
Whither  he  wandered,  to  what  desolate 

lands, 

Hiding  his  anguish  from  the  eyes  of  men. 
Then  Wolfram  groaned,  and  clasped  his 

hands,  and  cried, 


292 


TANNHAUSER; 


"  Merciful  God  ! "    and  fell   upon   his 

knees 

In  purpose  as  of  prayer,  —  but,  suddenly, 
About  the  gate  the  crowd  moved,  and  a 

cry 

Went  up  for  space,  when,  rising,  he  be- 
held 
Four  maids  who  on  a  pallet  bore  the 

form 

( >f  \vaii  Elizabeth.     The  whisper  grew 
That  she  had  met  the  pilgrims,  and  had 

learned 
Tannhauser's  fate,  and  fallen  beside  the 

way. 
And  Wolfram,  in  the  ghastly  torchlight, 

saw 
The  white  face  of  the  Princess  turned 

to  his, 
And  for  a  space  their  eyes  met ;  then 

she  raised 
One  hand  towards  Heaven,  and  smiled 

as  who  should  say, 

"0  friend,  I  journey  unto  God;  fare- 
well ! " 
But  he  could  answer  nothing  ;  for  his 

eyes 
Were  blinded  by  his  tears,  and  through 

his  tears 

Dimly,  as  in  a  dream,  he  saw  her  borne 
Up  the  broad  granite  steps  that  wind 

within 

The  palace ;    and    his    inner  eye,    en- 
tranced, 

Saw  in  a  vision  four  great  Angels  stand, 
Expectant  of  her  spirit,  at  the  foot 
Of  flights  of  blinding  brilliancy  of  stairs 
Innumerable,    that  through  the    riven 

skies 

Scaled  to  the  City  of  the  Saints  of  God. 
Then,  when  thick  night  fell  on  his  soul, 

and  all 

The  vision  fled,  he  solitary  stood 
A  crazed  man  within  the  castle-court  ; 
Whence   issuing,    with   wild    eyes   and 

wandering  gait 
He   through    the    darkness,    groaning, 

passed  away. 

All  that  lone  night,  along  the  haunted 

hills, 

By  dizzy  brinks  of  mountain  precipices, 
He  fleeted,  aimless  as  an  unused  wind 
That  wastes  itself  about  a  wilderness. 
Sometimes  from  low-browed  caves,  and 

hollow  crofts, 
Under  the  hanging  woods,  there  came 

and  went 


A  voice  of  wail  upon  the  midnight  air, 
As   of  a  lost  soul  mourning  ;  and   the 

voice 
Was  still  the  voice  of  his  remembered 

friend. 
Sometimes  (so   fancy  mocked  the  fears 

she  bred !) 

He  heard  along  the  lone  and  eery  land 
Low    demon   laughters ;   and   a   sullen 

strain 
Of  horror  swelled  upon  the  breeze  ;  and 

sounds 

Of  wizard  dance,  with  shawm  and  tim- 
brel, flew 
Ever  betwixt  waste  air  and  wandering 

cloud 

O'er  pathless  peaks.     Then,  in  the  dis- 
tance tolled, 
Or  seemed  to  toll,  a  knell :  the  breezes 

dropped  : 
And,  in  the  sudden  pause,  that  passing 

bell 
With  ghostly  summons  bade  him  back 

return 
To  where,  till  dawn,  a  shade  among  the 

shades 
Of  Wartburg,  watching  one  lone  tower, 

he  saw 
A  light  that  waned  with  all  his  earthly 

hopes. 

The  calm  Dawn  came  and  from  the  east- 
ern cliff, 
Athwart  the  glistening  slopes  and  cold 

green  copse, 
Called  to  him,  careless  of  a  grief  not 

hers; 
But  he,  ^rom  all  her  babbling  birds,  and 

all 
Her    vexing    sunlight,   with    a    weary 

heart 
Drew   close   the   darkness  of  the  glens 

and  glades 
About  him,  flying  through   the  forest 

deeps. 
And  day  and  night,  dim  eve  and  dewy 

dawn, 
Three  times  returning,  went  uncared  for 

by; 

And  thrice  the  double  twilights  rose  and 

fell 
About  a  land  where  nothing  seemed  the 

same, 

At  eve  or  dawn,  as  in  the  time  gone  by. 
But,  when  the  fourth  day  like  a  stranger 

slipped 
To  his   unhonored  grave,  God's  Angel 


OK,   THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


293 


Across  the  threshold  of  the  Landgrave's 

hall, 

And  in  his  bosom  bore  to  endless  peace 
The  weary  spirit  of  Elizabeth. 
Then,  in   that  hour  when  Death  with 

gentle  hand 
Had  drooped  the  quiet  eyelids  o'er  the 

eyes 
That  Wolfram  loved,  to  Wolfram's  heart 

there  came 

A  calmness  like  the  calmness  of  a  grave 
Walled  safe  from  all  the  noisy  walks  of 

men 
In   some  green    place  of  peace    where 

daisies  grow. 
His  tears  fell  in  the  twilight  with  the 

dews, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  with  the  twilight 

fell, 

When,  over  scarred  and  weather-wound- 
ed walls, 

Sharp-jagged  mountain  cones,  and  tan- 
gled quicks, 
Eve's  spirit,  settling,  laid  the  land  to 

sleep 
In  skyey  trance.     Nor  yet  less  soft  to 

fuse 
Memory    with    hope,   and    earth    with 

heaven,  to  him, 
Athwart  the  harsher  anguish   of  that 

day, 
There  stole  with  tears  the  tender  human 

sense 
Of    heavenly    mercy.      Through    that 

milder  mood, 
Like    waifs  that  float    to   shore   when 

storms  are  spent, 
Flowed  to  his  heart  old  memories  of  his 

friend, 
O'erwoven    with    the   weed     of    other 

griefs, 
Of  other  griefs  for  her  that  grieved  no 

more — 
And  of  that  time  when,  like  a  blazing 

star 
That  moves  and   mounts  between  the 

Lyre  and  Crown, 
Tannhauser   shone;  ere  sin  came,  and 

with  sin 
Sorrow.     And  now   if  yet    Tannhauser 

lived 
None  knew  :  and  if  he  lived,  what  hope 

in  life  ? 
And  if  he  lived  no  more,  what  rest  in 

death  '< 
But  every  way  the  dreadful  doom   of 

sin. 


Thus,  musing  much  on  all  the  mystery 
Of  life,  and  death,  and  love  that  will 

not  die, 
He   wandered    forth,    incurious  of  the 

way ; 
Which  took  the  wont  of  other  days,  and 

wound 
Along  the   valley.     Now   the  nodding 

star 

Of  even,  and  the  deep,  the  dewy  hour 
Held  all  the  sleeping  circle  of  the  hills  ; 
Nor  any  cloud  the  stainless  heavens  ob- 
scured, 
Save  where,  o'er  Hbrsel  folded  in   the 

frown 

Of  all  his  wicked  woods,  a  fleecy  fringe 
Of   vapor    veiled    the   slowly    sinking 

moon. 
There,  in  the  shade,  the  stillness,  o'er 

his  harp 
Leaning,  of  love,  and  life,  and  death  he 

sang 
A  song  to    which   from  all    her   aery 

caves 
The  mountain   echo  murmured  in  her 


But,   as  the  last  strain  of  his   solemn 

song 

Died  off  among  the  solitary  stars, 
There  came  in  answer  from  the  folded 

hills 
A  note  of  human  woe.     He  turned,  he 

looked 
That  way  the  sound  came  o'er  the  lonely 

air ; 
And,  seeing,  yet  believed  not  that  he 

saw, 

But,  nearer  moving,  saw  indeed  hard  by, 
Dark  in  the  darkness  of  a  neighboring 

hill, 
Lying  among  the  splintered  stones  and 

stubs 
Flat  in  the  fern,  with  limbs  diffused  as 

one 
That,   having  fallen,   cares  to  rise  no 

more, 

A  pilgrim ;  all  his  weeds  of  pilgrimage 
Hanging  and  torn,  his  sandals  stained 

with  blood 
Of   bruised  feet,   and,   broken    in    his 

hand, 
His  wreathed  staff. 

And  Wolfram  wistfully 
Looked  in  his  face,  and  knew  it  not. 

"Alas! 
Not    him,"   he    murmured,    "not    mj 

friend  !  "    And  then, 


TANNHAUSER; 


"What  art  thou,  pilgrim?  whence  thy 

way  ?  how  t'all'n 
In  this  wild  glen  ?  at  this  lone  hour 

abroad 
When  only  Grief  Is  stirring  ? "     Unto 

whom 
That  other,  where  he  lay  in  the  long 

grass, 
Not  rising,  but  with  petulant  gesture, 

"Hence! 
Whate'er  I  am,   it  skills  not.     Thee   I 

know 

Full  well,  Sir  Wolfram  of  the  Willow- 
brook, 
The  well-beloved  Singer ! " 

Like  a  dart 
From  a  friend's  hand  that  voice  through 

Wolfram  went : 

For  Memory  over  all  the  ravaged  form 
Wherefrom  it  issued,  wandering,  failed 

to  find 
The  man  she  mourned ;  but  Wolfram,  to 

the  voice 
No  stranger,  started  smit  with  pain,  as 

all 
The  past  on  those  sharp  tones  came  back 

to  break 
His    heart    with    hopeless    knowledge. 

And  he  cried, 
"Alas,  my  brother  !  "     Such  a  change, 

so  drear, 

In  all  so  unlike  all  that  once  he  was 
Showed   the  lost    knight    Tannhauser, 

where  he  lay 

Fallen  across  the  split  and  morselled  crags 
Like  a  dismantled  ruin.     And  Wolfram 

said, 
"0  lost !  how  comest  thou,  unabsolved, 

once  more 

Among  these  valleys  visited  by  death, 
And  shadowed  with  the  shadow  of  thy 

sin  ? " 
"Whereto  in  scorn  Tannhauser,  "Be  at 

rest, 

0  fearful  in  thy  righteousness  !  not  thee, 
Nor  grace  of  thine,  I  seek." 

Speaking,  he  rose 

The  spectre  of  a  beauty  waned  away  ; 
And,  like  a  hollow  echo  of  himself 
Mocking  his  own  last  words,  he  mur- 
mured, ' '  Seek  ! 

Alas !  what  seek  1  here,  or  anywhere  ? 
Whose  way  of  life  is  like  the  crumbled 

stair 
That  winds  and  winds  about  a  ruined 

tower, 
And  leads  nowhither  ! " 


But  Wolfram  cried,  "Yet  turn  ! 
For,  as   I  live,  I  will  not  leave  thee 

thus. 
My  life  shall  be  about  thee,   and  my 

voice 

Lure  scared  Hope  back  to  find  a  resting- 
place 
Even  in  the  jaws  of  Death.     I  do  adjure 

thee, 
By  all  that  friendship  yet  may  claim, 

declare 
That,  even  though  unabsolved,  not  un- 

contrite, 
Thy  soul  no  more  hath  lapsed  into  the 

snare 

Of  that  disastrous  sorcery.    Bid  me  hail, 
Seen  through  the  darkness  of  thy  deso- 
lation, 
Some  light  of  purer  purpose;  since  I 

deem 
Not  void  of  purpose  hast  thou  sought 

these  paths 
That   range  among  the  places  of   the 

past ; 

And  I  will  make  defeat  of  Grief  with  such 
True  fellowship  of  tears  as  shall  disarm 
Her  right  hand  of  its  scorpions ;  nor  in 

vain 
My   prayers  with  thine  shall  batter  at 

the  gates 
Of  Mercy,  through  all   antagonisms  of 

fate 
Forcing  sharp  inlet  to  her  throne  in 

Heaven." 

Whereat  Tannhauser,   turning  tearless 

eyes 
On  Wolfram,  murmured  mournfully,  "  If 

tears 

Fiery  as  those  from  fallen  seraphs  dis- 
tilled, 

Or  centuries  of  prayers  for  pardon  sighed 
Sad,  as  of  souls  in  purgatorial  glooms, 
Might  soften  condemnation,  or  restore 
To  Tier,  whom  most  on  earth  I  have  of- 
fended, 

The  holy  freight  of  all  her  innocent  hopes 
Wrecked  in  this  ruined  venture,  I  would 

weep 
Salt  oceans  from  these  eyes.     But  I  no 

more 
May  drain  the  deluge  from  my  heart,  no 

more 

On  any  breath  of  sigh  or  prayer  rebuild 
The  rainbow  of  discovenanted  Hope. 
Thou,  therefore,  Wolfram  —  for  her  face, 
when  mine 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


295 


Is  dark  forever,  thine  eyes  may  still  be- 
hold— 

Tell  her,  if  thou  unblamed  may'st  speak 
of  one 

Signed  cross  by  the  curse  of  God  and 
cancelled  out, 

How,  at  the  last,  though  in  remorse  of  all 

That  makes  allegiance  void  and  valueless, 

To  me  has  come,  with  knowledge  of  my 
loss, 

Fealty  to  that  pure  passion,  once  be- 
trayed, 

Wherewith  I  loved,  and  love  her." 

There  his  voice, 
Even  as  a  wave  that,  touching  on  the 

shore 
To  which  it  travelled,  is  shivered  and 

diffused, 
Sank,  scattered  into  spray  of  wasteful 

sighs, 
And  back  dissolved  into  the  deeper  grief. 

To  whom,  "Wolfram,  "  0  answer  by  the 

faith 
In  which  mankind  are  kindred,  art  thou 

not 
From     Rome,    unhappiest  ? "      "From 

Rome  ?  ah  me  ! " 

He  muttered,  ' '  Rome  is  far  off,  very  far, 
And  weary  is  the  way  !  "  But  undeterred 
Wolfram  renewed,  "  And  hast  thou  not 

beheld 
The  face  of  Christ's  High  Vicar  ? "    And 

again, 
"  Pass  on,"  he  muttered,  "  what  is  that 

to  thee  ? " 
Whereto,  with  sorrowful  voice,  Wolfram, 

"Oall, 

And  all  in  all  to  me  that  love  my  friend  ! " 
"My  friend!"  Tannhauser  laughed  a 

bitter  laugh 
Then  sadlier  said,  "  What  thou  wouldst 

know,  once  known, 

Will  cause  thee  to  recall  that  wasted  word 
And  cancel  all  the  kindness  in  thy 

thoughts ; 

Yet  shalt  thou  learn  my  misery,  and  learn 
The  man  so  changed,  whom  once  thou 

calledst  '  friend,' 

That  unto  him  the  memory  of  himself 
Is  as  a  stranger."     Then,  with  eyes  that 

swam 
True  sorrow,  Wolfram  stretched  his  arms 

and  sought 
To  clasp  Tannhauser  to  him :  but  the 

other 


Waved  him  away,  and  with  a  shout  that 

sprang 
Fierce    with    self-scorn    from    misery's 

deepest  depth, 
"Avaunt!"   he     cried,    "the    ground 

whereon  I  tread 
Is  ground  accurst ! 

' '  Yet  stand  not  so  far  off 
But  what  thine  ears,  if  yet  they  will,  may 

take 
The  tale  thy  lips  from  mine  have  sought 

to  learn  ; 
Then,  sign  thyself,  and  peaceful  go  thy 

ways." 
And  Wolfram,  for  the  grief  that  choked 

his  voice, 
Could  only  murmur  "  Speak  !  "     But  for 

a  while 

Tannhauser  to  sad  silence  gave  his  heart ; 
Then   fetched  back  some  far  thought, 

sighing,  and  said  :  — 

"  0  Wolfram,  by  the  love  of  lovelier  days 
Believe  I  am  not  so  far  fallen  away 
From  all  I  was  while  we  might  yet  be 

friends, 
But  what  these  words,  haply  my  last, 

are  true : 
True  as  my  heart's  deep  woe  what  time 

I  felt 
Cold  on  my  brow  tears  wept,  and  wept 

in  vain, 
For  me,    among  the   scorn   of    altered 

friends, 
Parting  that  day  for  Rome.     Remember 

this  : 
That  when,  in  the  after  years  to  which  I 

pass 

A  by- word,  and  a  mockery,  and  no  more, 
Thou,  honored  still  by  honorable  men, 
Shalt  hear  my  name  dishonored,  thou 

may'st  say, 
'  Greatly  he  grieved  for  that  great  sin  he 

sinned. ' 

"  Ever,  as  up  the  windy  Alpine  way, 
We  halting  oft  by  cloudy  convent  doors, 
My  fellow-pilgrims  warmed  themselves 

within, 
And  ate  and  drank,  and  slept  their  sleep, 

all  night, 

I,  fasting,  slept  not ;  but  in  ice  and  snow 
Wept,  aye  remembering  her  that  wept 

for  me, 
And  loathed  the  sin  within  me.     When 

at  length 
Our  way  lay  under  garden  terraces 


296 


TAN'NllAl'SER; 


Strewn  with   their  dropping  blossoms, 
thick  witli  scents. 

Among  the  towers  and  towns  of  Italy, 

Whose  sumptuous  airs  along  them,  like 
the  ghosts 

Of  their  old  gods,  went  sighing,   I  nor 
looked 

Nor  lingered,  but  with  bandaged  eyeballs 
prest, 

Impatient,  to  the  city  of  the  shrine 

Of  my  desired  salvation.     There  by  night 

We  entered.     There,  all  night,  forlorn  I 
lay 

Bruised,  broken,  bleeding,  all  my  gar- 
ments torn, 

And  all  my  spirit  stricken  with  remorse, 

Prostrate   beneath   the  great   cathedral 
stairs. 

So  the  dawn  found  me.     From  a  hun- 
dred spires 

A  hundred  silvery  chimes  rang  joy  :  but  I 

Lay  folded  in  the  shadow  of  my  shame, 

Darkening  the  daylight  from  me  in  the 
dust. 

Then   came  a  sound  of  solemn   music 
flowing 

To  where  I  crouched  ;  voices  and  tram- 
pling feet ; 

And,  girt  by  all  his  crimson  cardinals, 

In  all  his  pomp  the  sovran  Pontiff  stood 

Before  me  in  the  centre  of  my  hopes.; 

Which  trembled  round  him  into  glorious 
shapes, 

Golden,  as  clouds  that  ring  the  risen  sun. 

And  all  the  people,  all  the  pilgrims,  fell 

Low  at  his  sacred  feet,  confessed  their 
sins, 

And,  pardoned,  rose  with  psalms  of  jubi- 
lee 

And  confident  glad  faces. 

"Then  I  sprang 

To  where  he   paused  above  me  ;   with 
wild  hands 

Clutched  at  the  skirts  I  could  not  reach  ; 
and  sank 

Shiveringly  back  ;  crying,  '  0  holy,  and 
high, 

And   terrible,    that    hast   the   keys  of 
heaven  ! 

Thou  that  dost  bind  and  dost  unloose, 
from  me, 

For  Mary's  sake,  and  the  sweet  saints', 
unbind 

The  grievous   burthen   of   the  curse  I 
bear.' 

And  when  he  questioned,  and  I  told  him 
all 


The  sin  that  smouldered  in  my  blood, 

how  bml, 

And  all  the  strangeness  of  it,  then  his  f;i<:<- 
Was  as  the  Judgment  Angel's  ;  :uid  I  hid 
My  own  ;  and,  hidden  from  his  eyes,  I 

heard : 

"  'Hast  thou  within  the  nets  of  Satan 

lain? 
Hast  thou   thy  soul  to  her  perdition 

pledged  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  lip  to  Hell's  Enchantress 

lent, 

To  drain  damnation  from  her  reeking  cup  ? 
Then  know  that  sooner  from  the  withered 

staff 
That  in  my  hand   I  hold  green  leaves 

shall  spring, 
Than  from  the  brand  in  hell-fire  scorched 

rebloom 
The  blossoms  of  salvation.' 

' '  The  voice  ceased, 
And,  with  it  all  things  from  my  sense. 

I  waked 
I  know  not  when,  but  all  the  place  was 

dark  : 

Above  me,  and  about  me,  and  within 
Darkness  :  and  from  that  hour  by  moon 

or  sun 

Darkness  unutterable  as  of  death 
Where'er  I  walk.     But  death  himself  is 

near  ! 
0,  might  I  once  more  see  her,  unseen  ; 

unheard, 
Hear  her  once  more  ;  or  know  that  she 

forgives 
Whom  Heaven  forgives  not,  nor  his  own 

lost  peace  ; 

I  think  that  even  among  the  nether  fires 
And  those  dark  fields  of  Doom  to  which 

I  pass, 
Some  blessing  yet  would  haunt  me." 

Sorrowfully 
He  rose  among  the  tumbled  rocks  and 

leaned 
Against  the  dark.     As  one  that  many  a 

year, 

Sundered  by  savage  seas  unsociable 
From  kin  and  country,  in  a  desert  isle 
Dwelling  till  half  dishumanized,  beholds 
Haply,  one  eve,  a  far-off  sail  go  by, 
That  brings  old  thoughts  of  home  across 

his  heart ; 
And  still  the  man  who  thinks —  "They 

are  all  gone, 
Or  changed,  that  loved  me  once,  and  I 

myself 


OK,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BAUDS. 


297 


No  more  the  same  "  —  watches  the  dwin- 
dling speck 

With  weary  eyes,  nor  shouts,  nor  waves 
a  hand ; 

But  after,  when  the  night  is  left  alone, 

A  sadness  falls  upon  him,  and  he  feels 

More  solitary  in  his  solitudes, 

And  tears  come  starting  fast ;  so,  tear- 
ful, stood 

Tannhauser,  whilst  his  melancholy 
thoughts, 

From  following  up  far  off  a  waning  hope, 

Back  to  himself  came,  one  by  one,  more 
sad 

Because  of  sadness  troubled. 

Yet  not  long 

He  rested  thus  ;  but  murmured,  "Now, 
farewell : 

I  go  to  hide  me  darkly  in  the  groves 

That  she  was  wont  to  haunt ;  where 
some  sweet  chance 

Haply  may  yield  me  sight  of  her,  and  I 

May  stoop,  she  passed  away,  to  kiss  the 
ground 

Made  sacred  by  her  passage  ere  I  die." 

But  him  departing  Wolfram  held, 
"  Vain  !  vain  ! 

Thy  footstep  sways  with  fever,  and  thy 
mind 

Wavers  within  thy  restless  eyes.  Lie 
here, 

0  unrejected,  in  my  arms,  and  rest !  " 

Now  o'er  the  cumbrous  hills  began  to 
creep 

A  thin  and  watery  light :  a  whisper  went 

Vague  through  the  vast  and  dusky- vol- 
umed  woods, 

And,  uncompanioned,  from  a  drowsy  copse 

Hard  by  a  solitary  chirp  came  cold, 

While,  spent  with  inmost  trouble,  Tann- 
hauser leaned 

His  wan  cheek  pillowed  upon  Wol- 
fram's breast, 

Calm,  as  in  death,  with  placid  lids  down 
locked. 

And  Wolfram  prayed  within  his  heart, 
_  "Ah,  God! 

Let  him  not  die,  not  yet,  not  thus,  with 
all 

The  sin  upon  his  spirit ! "  But  while 
he  prayed 

Tannhauser  raised  delirious  looks,  and 
sighed, 

"Hearest  thou  not  the  happy  songs 
they  sing  me  ? 

Seest  thou  not  the  lovely  floating  forms  ? 


0  fair,  and  fairer  far  than  fancy  fashioned ! 
0  sweet  the  sweetness  of  the  songs  they 

sing  ! 
For  tfiee,  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  .  the  goddess 

waits:  for  thee 
With  braided  blooms  the  balmy  couch  i 

strewn, 
And  loosed  for  thee  .  .  .  they  sing  .  .  . 

the  golden  zone. 

Fragrant  for  thee  the  lighted  spices  fums 
With  streaming  incense  sweet,  and  sweet 

for  thee 
The  scattered  rose,  the  myrtle  crown,  the 

cup, 
The  nectar-cup  for  thee  /  .  .  .  they  sing. 

Return, 
Though  late,  too  long  desired,  ...  I  hear 

them  sing, 

Delay  no  more  delights  too  long  delayed  : 
Turn  to   thy  rest ;  .  .  .  they   sing  .  .  . 

the  married  doves 
Murmur  ;  the  Fays  soft-sparkling  tapers 

tend  ; 

The  odors  burn  the  purple  bowers  among  ; 
And  Love  for  thee,  and  Beauty,  waits! 

.  .  .  they  sing." 

"  Ah  me  !  ah  madman  ! "  Wolfram  cried, 

"yet  cram 

Thy  cheated  ears,  nor  chase  with  credu- 
lous heart 
The  fair  dissembling    of   that    dream. 

For  thee 
Not  roses  now,  but  thorns  ;  nor  myrtle 

wreath, 
But  cypress  rather  and  the  graveyard 

flower 
Befitting    saddest    brows ;     nor    nectar 

poured, 
But  prayers  and   tears !     For  thee   in 

yonder  skies 
An  Angel  strives  with  Sin  and  Death  ; 

for  thee 

Yet  pleads  a  spirit  purer  than  thine  own  : 
For  she  is  gone  !  gone  to  the  breast  of 

God! 
Thy  Guardian  Angel,  while  she  walked 

the  earth, 

Thine  intercessionary  Saint  while  now 
For  thee  she  sues  about  the  Throne 

Thrones, 
Beyond  the  stars,  our  star,  Elizabeth  ! 

Then  Wolfram  felt  the  shattered  frame 

that  leaned 
Across  his  breast  with  sudden  spasms 

convulsed. 


298 


TANNHAUSER; 


"Dead!    is    she    dead?"    Tannhauser 

murmured,  "dead! 
crone  to  the  grave,  so  young !  murdered 

—  by  me  ! 

Dead  —  and  by  my  great  sin  !    0  Wol- 
fram, turn 
Thy   face   from   mine.     I   am   a   dying 

man  ! " 
And  Wolfram  answered,   ' '  Dying  ?  ah, 

not  thus  ! 
Yet  make  one  sign  thou  dost  repent  the 

past, 
One  word,  but  one  !  to  say  thou  hast 

abhorred 
That    false    she-devil    that,    with    her 

damned  charms, 
Hath  wrought  this  ruin  ;  and  I,  though 

all  the  world 
Roar  out  against  thee,  ay  !  though  fiends 

of  hell 
Howl  from  the  deeps,  yet  I,  thy  friend, 

even  yet 
Will  cry  them  '  Peace  ! '  and  trust  the 

hope  I  hold 
Against  all   desperate  odds,   and  deem 

thee  saved." 
Whereto  Tannhauser,  speaking  faintly, 

"Friend, 
The  fiend  that  haunts  in  ruins  through 

my  heart 
Will  wander  sometimes.     In  the  nets  I 

trip, 
When  most  I  fret  the  meshes.     These 

spent  shafts 

Are  of  a  sickly  brain  that  shoots  awry, 
Aiming  at  something  better.     Bear  with 

me. 
I  die  :  I  pass  I  know  not  whither :  yet 

know 

That  I  die  penitent.  0  Wolfram,  pray, 
Pray  for  my  soul  !  I  cannot  pray  myself. 
I  dare  not  hope  :  and  yet  I  would  not  die 
Without  a  hope,  if  any  hope,  though  faint 
And  far  beyond  this  darkness,  yet  may 

dwell 
In  the  dear  death  of  Him  that  died  for 

all." 
He  whispering  thus  ;  far  in  the  Aurorean 

East' 

The  ruddy  sun,  uprising,  sharply  smote 
A  golden  finger  on  the  airy  harps 
By    Morning    hung    within    her   leafy 

bowers  ; 

And  all  about  the  budded  dells,  and  woods 
With  sparkling-tasselled  tops,  from  birds 

and  brooks 
A  hundred  hallelujahs  hailed  the  light 


Tlif  whitethorn  glistened  from  the  wak- 
ening glen  : 

O'er  golden  gravel  danced  the  dawning 
rills  : 

All  the  delighted  leaves  by  copse  and 

Slade 
ed  ;  and  breezy  bleatings  came 
from  flocks 
Far  off  in  pleasant  pastures  fed  with  dew. 

But  whilst,    unconscious  of  the   silent 

change 
Thus  stolen  around  him,  o'er  the  dying 

bard 
Hung   Wolfram,    on    the    breeze    there 

came  a  sound 
Of  mourning  moving  down  the  narrow 

glen; 

And,  looking  up,  he  suddenly  was  'ware 
Of  four  white  maidens,  moving  in  the  van 
Of  four  black  monks  who  bore  upon  her 

bier 

The  flower-strewn  corpse  of  young  Eliza- 
beth. 
And  after  these,   from   all  the   castled 

hills, 

A  multitude  of  lieges  and  of  lords  ; 
A  multitude  of  men-at-arms,  with  all 
Their    morions   hung  with   mourning ; 

and  in  midst 

His  worn  cheek  channelled  with  unwont- 
ed tears, 

The  Landgrave,  weeping  for  Elizabeth. 
These,    as    the    sad    procession    nearer 

wound, 
And  nearer,  trampling  bare  the  feathery 

weed 
To  where   Sir  Wolfram  rested  o'er  his 

friend, 

Tannhauser  caught  upon  his  dying  gaze  ; 
And   caught,  perchance,   upon   the   in- 
*         ward  eye, 
Far,  far  beyond  the  corpse,  the  bier,  and 

far 

Beyond  the  widening  circle  of  the  sun, 
Some  sequel  of  that  vision  Wolfram  saw  : 
The  crowned  Spirit  by  the  Jasper  Gates  ; 
The  four  white  Angels  o'er  the  walls  of 

Heaven, 
The  shores  where,  tideless,  sleep  the  seas 

of  Time 
Soft  by  the  C'ity  of  the  Saints  of  God. 

Forth,    with   the    strength   that    lastly 

comes  to  break 
All  bonds,  from  Wolfram's  folding  arm 

he  leapt, 


OR,  THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  BARDS. 


299 


Clambered  the  pebbly  path,  and,  groan- 
ing, fell 
Flat  on  the  bier  of  love  —  his  bourn  at 

last  ! 
Then,  even  then,  while  question  question 

chased 

About  the  ruffled  circle  of  that  grief, 
And  all  was  hubbub  by  the  bier,  a  noise 
Of  shouts  and  hymns  brake  in  across  the 

hills, 
That  now  o'erflowed  with  hurrying  feet ; 

and  came, 
Dashed  to  the  hip  with  travel,  and  dewed 

with  haste, 

A  Hying  post,  and  in  his  hand  he  bore 
A  withered  staff  o'erflourished  with  green 

leaves  ; 
Who,  —  followed  by  a  crowd  of  youth 

and  eld, 
That  sang  to  stun  with  sound  the  lark 

in  heaven, 

"  A  miracle  !  a  miracle  from  Rome  ! 
Glory  to  God  that  makes  the  bare  bough 

green  ! "  — 

Sprang  in  the  inidst,  and,  hot  for  an- 
swer, asked 
News  of  the  Knight  Tannhauser. 

Then  a  monk 
Of  those  that,  stoled  in  sable,  bore  the 

bier 
Pointing,  with  sorrowful  hand,  "  Behold 

the  man  ! " 

But  straight  the  other,  "Glory  be  to  God ! 
This  from  the  Vicar  of  the  fold  of  Christ :' 
The  withered  staff  hath  nourished  into 

leaves, 
The  brand  shall  bloom,  though  burned 

with  fire,  and  thou 
—  Thy  soul  from  sin  be  saved  ! "     To 

whom,  with  tears 
That  flashed  from  lowering  lids,  Wolfraju 

replied  : 

"To  him  a  swifter  message,  from  a  source 
Mightier  than  whence  thou  comest,  hath 

been  vouchsafed. 
See  these  stark  hands,  blind  eyes,  and 

bloodless  lips, 

This  shattered  remnant  of  a  once  fair  form, 
Late  home  of  desolation,  now  the  husk 
And  ruined  chrysalis  of  a  regal  spirit 
That  up  to  heaven  hath  parted  on  the 

wing  ! 
But  thou,  to  Rome  returning  with  hot 


Tell  the  high  Vicar  of  the  Fold  of  Christ 
How  that  lost  sheep  his  rescuing  hand 
would  reach, 


Although  by  thee  unfound,  is  found  in- 
deed, 

And  in  the  Shepherd's  bosom  lies  at 
peace. " 

And  they  that  heard  him  lifted  up  the 

voice 
And  wept.     But  they  that  stood  about 

the  hills 
Far  off,  not  knowing,  ceased  not  to  cry 

out, 
"Glory  to   God  that  makes   the   bare 

bough  green  ! " 

Till  Echo,  from  the  inmost  heart  of  all 
That  mellowing  morn  blown  open  like  a 

rose 

To  round  and  ripen  to  the  perfect  noon, 
Resounded,   "Glory!   glory!"  and  the 

rocks 
From  glen  to  glen  rang,  "  Glory  unto 

God  ! " 

And  so  those  twain,  severed  by  Life  and 

Sin, 

By  Love  and  Death  united,  in  one  grave 
Slept.     But  Sir  Wolfram  passed  into  the 

wilds  : 
There,  with  long  labor  of  his  hands,  he 

hewed 

A  hermitage  from  out  the  hollow  rock, 
Wherein  he  dwelt,  a  solitary  man. 
There,  many  a  year,  at  nightfall  or  at 

dawn, 
The  pilgrim  paused,  nor  ever  paused  in 

vain, 

For  words  of  cheer  along  his  weary  way. 
But  once,    upon   a  windy  night,    men 

heard 
A  noise  of  rustling  wings,  and  at  the 

dawn 
They  found  the   hermit  parted   to  his 

peace. 
The  place  is  yet.     The  youngest  pilgrim 

knows, 
And  loves  it.     Three  gray  rocks ;  and, 

over  these, 
A  mountain  ash  that,  mourning,  bead 

by  bead, 
Drops  her  red  rosary  on  a  ruined  cell. 

So  sang  the  Saxon  Bard.     And  when  he 

ceased. 
The  women's  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears  ; 

but  all 
The  broad-blown  Barons  roared  applause, 

and  flowed 
|  The  jostling  tankards  prodigal  of  winq, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 


AGAMEMNON. 


ORESTES. 
PHOCIAN. 
HERALD. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
ELECTUA. 
CASSANDRA. 
CHORUS. 


SCENE.  —  Before  the  Palace  of  Agamemnon  in  Argos. 

shield  of  Agamemnon,  on  the  wall. 
TIME.  —  Morning.     The  action  continues  till  Sunset. 


Trophies,  amongst  which  ths 


I.     CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

MORNING  at  last !  at  last  the  lingering 

day 
Creeps  o'er  the  dewy  side  of  yon  dark 

world. 

0  dawning  light  already  on  the  hills  ! 
0  universal  earth,  and  air,  and  thou, 
First  freshness  of  the  east,  which  art  a 

breath 
Breathed  from  the  rapture  of  the  gods, 

who  bless 
Almost  all  other  prayers  on  earth   but 

mine  ! 

Wherefore  to  me  is  solacing  sleep  denied  ? 
And  honorable  rest,  the  right  of  all  ? 
So  that  no  medicine  of  the  slumbrous 

shell, 
Brimmed    with     divinest    draughts    of 

melody, 

Nor  silence  under  dreamful  canopies, 
Nor  purple  cushions  of  the  lofty  couch 
May  lull  this  fever  for  a  little  while. 
Wherefore  to  me,  —  to  me,  of  all  man- 
kind, 

This  retribution  for  a  deed  undone  ? 
For  many   men    outlive   their  sum   of 

crimes, 
And  eat,  and  drink,  and  lift  up  thankful 

hands, 

And  take  their  rest  securely  in  the  dark. 
Am   I   not    innocent,  —  or    more   than 

these? 

There  is  no  blot  of  murder  on  my  brow, 
Nor  any  taint  of  blood  upon  my  robe. 


—  It  is  the  thought  !  it  is  the  thought ! 

.  .  .  and  men 
Judge  us  by  acts  !  ...  as  though  one 

thunder-clap 

Let  all  Olympus  out.     Unquiet  heart, 
111  fares  it  with  thee  since,  ten  sad  years 

past, 

In  one  wild  hour  of  unacquainted  joy, 
Thou  didst  set  wide  thy  lonely  bridal 

doors 

For  a  forbidden  guest  to  enter  in  ! 
Last  night,  methought  pale  Helen,  with 

a  frown, 
Swept  by  me,   murmuring,   "I  —  such 

as  thou — 
A  Queen  in  Greece  —  weak-hearted,  (woe 

is  me  !) 

Allured  by  love  —  did,  iia  an  evil  hour, 
Fall  off  from  duty.     Sorrow  came.     Be- 
ware ! " 

And  then,  in  sleep,  there  passed  a  bale- 
ful band,  — 
The  ghosts  of  all  the  slaughtered  under 

Troy, 
From  this  side  Styx,  who  cried,   "  For 

such  a  crime 

We  fell  from  our  fair  palaces  on  earth, 
And  wander,  starless,  here.     For  such  a 

crime 
A  thousand  ships  were   launched,   and 

tumbled  down 
The  topless  towers  of  Ilion,  though  they 

rose 

To  magic  music,  in  the  time  of  Gods  ! " 
With  such  fierce  thoughts  forevennore 

at  war, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


301 


Vext  not  alone  \>y  hankering  wild  regrets, 
But  fears,  yet  worse,  of  that  which  soon 

must  come, 
My  heart   waits  armed,  and  from   the 

citadel 
Of  its  high   sorrow,  sees  far  off  dark 

shapes, 

And  hears  the  footsteps  of  Necessity 
Tread  near,  and  nearer,  hand  in  hand 

with  Woe. 
Last  night  the  flaming  Herald  warning 

urged 
Up  all  the  hills,  —  small  time  to  pause 

and  plan  ! 
Counsel  is  weak :  and  much  remains  to 

do, 

That  Agamemnon,  and,  if  else  remain 
Of  that  enduring  band  who  sailed  for 

Troy 

Ten  years  ago  (and  some  sailed  Lethe- 
ward), 
Find  us  not  unprepared  for  their  return. 

But  —  hark  !  I  hear  the  tread  of  nimble 

feet 
That  sound  this  way.     The  rising  town 

is  poured 

About  the  festive  altars  of  the  Gods, 
And  from  the  heart  of  the  great  Agora, 
Lets  out  its  gladness  for  this  last  night's 

news. 

—  Ah,  so  it  is  !     Insidious,  sly  Report, 
Sounding  oblique,  like  Loxia'n  oracles, 
Tells  double-tongued  (and  with  the  self- 
same voice  !) 

To  some  new  gladness,  new  despair  to 
some. 


II.     CHORUS   AND     CLYTEMNES- 
TRA. 

CHORUS. 

0  dearest  Lady,  daughter  of  Tyndarus  ! 
With  purple  flowers  we  come,  and  offer- 
ings- 
Oil,  and  wine  ;  and  cakes  of  honey, 
Soothing,  unadulterate  ;  tapestries    - 
Woven  by  white  Argive  maidens, 
God-descended  (woven  only 
For  the  homeward  feet  of  Heroes) 
To  celebrate  this  glad  intelligence 
Which  last  night  the  fiery  courier 
Brought  us,  posting  up  from  Ilion, 
Wheeled  above  the  dusky  circle 
Of  the  hills  from  lighted  Ida. 
For  now  (Troy  lying  extinguisht 


Underneath  a  mighty  Woe) 
Our  King  and- chief  of  men, 
Agamemnon,  returning 
(And  with  him  the  hope  of  Argos), 
Shall  worship  at  the  Tutelary  Altars 
Of  their  dear  native  land  : 
In  the  fane  of  ancient  Here, 
Or  the  great  Lycaean  God  ; 
Immortally  crowned  with  reverend  honor! 
But  tell  us  wherefore,  0  godlike  woman, 
Having  a  lofty  trouble  in  your  eye, 
You  walk  alone  with  loosened  tresses  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Shall  the  ship  toss,  and  yet  the  helm 

not  heave  ? 
Shall  they  drowse  sitting  at  the  lower 

oars, 
When  those  that  hold  the  middle  benches 

wake  ? 

He  that  is  yet  sole  eye  of  all  our  state 
Shining  not  here,  shall  ours  be  shut  in 

dreams  ? 
But  haply  you   (thrice   happy  !)  prove 

not  this, 
The  curse  of  Queens,  and  worse  than 

widowed  wives  — 

To  wake,  and  hear,  all  night,  the  wan- 
dering gnat 
Sing  through  the  silent  chambers,  while 

Alarm, 
In  place  of   Slumber,  by  the  haunted 

couch 
Stands  sentinel  ;  or  when  from  coast  to 

coast 
Wails    the    night-wandering    wind,    or 

when  o'er  heaven 

Bootes  hath  unleashed  his  fiery  hounds, 
And  Night  her  glittering  camps   hath 

set,  and  lit 
Her  watch-fires  through  the  silence  of 

the  skies, 
—  To  count  ill  chances  in  the  dark,  and 

feel 
Deserted  pillows  wet  with   tears,   not 

kisses, 
Where  kisses  once  fell. 

But  now  Expectation 
Stirs  up   such   restless  motions  of  the 

blood 

As  suffer  not  my  lids  to  harbor  sleep. 
Wherefore,  0  beloved  companions, 
I  wake  betimes,  and  wander  up  and  down, 
Looking  toward  the  distant  hill-tops, 
From  whence  shall  issue  fair  fulfilment 
Of  all  our -ten-years'  hoping.     For,  be- 
hold ! 


302 


(JLYTEMNESTRA. 


Troy  being  captived,  we  shall  see  once 
more 

Those  whom  we  loved  in  days  of  old. 

Yet  some  will  come  not  from  the  Phry- 
gian shore, 

But  there  lie  weltering  to  the  surf  and 
wind  ; 

Exiled  from  day,  in  darkness  blind, 

Or  having  crost  unhappy  Styx. 

And  some  who  left  us  full  of  vigorous 
youth 

Shall  greet  us  now  gray-headed  men. 

But  if  our  eyes  behold  again 

Our  long-expected  chief,  in  truth, 

Fortune  for  us  hath  thrown  the  Treble 
Six. 

CHORUS. 

By   us,    indeed,    these   things  are   also 

wisht. 
Wherefore,  if  now  to  this  great  son  of 

Atreus 
(Having    survived   the   woful   walls  of 

Troy), 
With  us,  once  more,  the  Gods  permit  to 

stand 

A  glad  man  by  the  pillars  of  his  hearth, 
Let  his   dear  life    nenceforth   be   such 

wherein 
The  Third  Libation  often  shall  be  poured. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  let  his  place  be  numbered  with  the 

Gods, 

Who  overlook  the  world's  eternal  walls, 
Out  of  all  reach  of  sad  calamities. 

CHORUS 
It  is  not  well,  I  think,  that  men  should 

set 

Too  near  the  Gods  any  of  mortal  kind  : 
But  brave  men  are  as  Gods  upon  the 

earth. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  whom  Death  daunts  not,  these  are 
truly  brave. 

CHORUS. 
But  more  than  all  I  reckon  that  man 

blest, 
Who,  having  sought  Death  nobly,  finds 

it  not. 

r[  YITMNKM  KA. 

Except  he  find  it  where  he  does  not  seek. 


CHORUS. 
You  speak  in  riddles. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

For  so  Wisdom  speaks. 
But  now  do  you  with  garlands  wreathe 

the  altars, 

While  I,  within,  the  House  prepare. 
That  so  our  King,  at  his  returning, 
With  his  golden  armament, 
Find  us  not  unaware 
Of  the  greatness  of  the  event. 


Soon  shall  we  see  the  faces  that  we  loved. 
Brother  once  more  clasping  brother, 
As  in  the  unforgotten  days  : 
And  heroes,  meeting  one  another 
(Men  by  glorious  toils  approved) 
Where  once  they  roved, 
Shall  rove  again  the  old  familiar  ways. 
And  they  that  from  the  distance  come 
Shall    feed   their   hearts   with   tales  of 

home  ; 

And  tell  the  famous  story  of  the  war. 
Rumored  sometime  from  afar. 
Now  shall  these  again  behold 
The  ancient  Argos  ;  and  the  grove 
Long  since  trod 

By  the  frenzied  child  of  Inachus  ; 
And  the  Forum,  famed  of  old, 
Of  the  wolf -destroy  ing  God  ; 
And  the  opulent  Mycenae, 
Home  of  the  Pelopidse, 
While  they  rove  with  those  they  love, 
Holding  pleasant  talk  with  us. 
0  how  gloriously  they  went, 
That  avenging  armament ! 
As  though  Olympus  in  her  womb 
No  longer  did  entomb 
The  greatness  of  a  bygone  world  — 
Gods  and  godlike  men  — 
But  cast  them  forth  again 
To  frighten  Troy  :  such  storm  was  hurled 
On  her  devoted  towers 
By  the  retributive  Deity, 
Whosoe'er  he  be 
Of  the  Immortal  Powers  — 
Or  maddening  Pan,  if  he  chastise 
His  Shepherd's  Phrygian  treacheries  ; 
Or  vengeful  Loxias  ;  or  Zeus, 
Angered  for  the  shame  and  abuse 
Of  a  great  man's  hospitality. 

As  \vi.le  as  is  Olympus'  span 
Is  the  power  of  the  high  Gods ; 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


303 


Who,  in  their  golden  blest  abodes 
See  all  things,  looking  from  the  sky  ; 
And  Heaven  is  hard  to  pacify 
For  the  wickedness  of  man. 
My  heart  is  filled  with  vague  forebodings, 
And  opprest  by  unknown  terrors 
Lest,  in  the  light  of  so  much  gladness, 
Rise  the  shadow  of  ancient  wrong. 
0  Daemon  of  the  double  lineage 
Of  Tantalus  ;  and  the  Pleisthenidse, 
Inexorable  in  thy  mood, 
On  the  venerable  threshold 
Of  the  ancient  House  of  Pelops 
Surely  is  enough  of  blood ! 
Wherefore  does  my  heart  misgive  me  ? 
Wherefore  comes  this  doubt  to  grieve  me  ? 
0,  may  no  Divine  Envy 
Follow  home  the  Argive  army, 
Being  vest  for  things  ill-done 
In  wilful  pride  of  stubborn  war, 
Long  since,  in  the  distant  lands  ! 
May  no  Immortal  wrath  pursue 
Our  dear  King,  the  Light  of  Argos, 
For  the  unhappy  sacrifice 
Of  a  daughter  ;  working  evil 
In  the  dark  heart  of  a  woman ; 
Or  some  household  treachery, 
And  a  curse  from  kindred  hands  ! 


III.    CLYTEMNESTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

[Re-entering  from  the  house. 

To-morrow  .  .  .  ay,  what  if  to-day  ? .  .  . 

Well  —  then  ? 
Why,  if  those   tongues  of  flame,   with 

which  last  night 
The  land  was  eloquent,  spoke  certain 

truth, 
By  this  perchance  through  green  Saronic 

rocks 
Those  black  ships  glide . .  .  perchance . .  . 

well,  what 's  to  fear  ? 
'T  were  well  to  dare  the  worst  —  to  know 

the  end  — 
Die  soon,  or  live  secure.     What 's  left  to 

add 
To  years  of  nights  like  those  which  I 

have  known  ? 

Shall  I  shrink  now  to  meet  one  little  hour 
Which  I  have  dared  to  contemplate  for 

years  ? 
By  all   the   Gods,    not   so  !    The    end 

crowns  all, 
Which  if  we  fail  to  seize,  that 's  also  lost 


Which  went  before  :  as  who  would  lead 
a  host 

Through  desolate  dry  places,  yet  return 

In  sight  of  kingdoms,  when  the  Gods  are 
roused 

To  mark  the  issue  ? .  .  .  And  yet,  yet  — 

I  think 

Three  nights  ago  there  must  have  been 
sea-storms. 

The  wind  was  wild  among  the  Palace 
towers  : 

Far  off  upon  the  hideous  Element 

I  know  it  huddled  up  the  petulant  waves, 

Whose  shapeless  and  bewildering  preci- 
pices 

Led  to  the  belly  of  Orcus  ...  0,  to  slip 

Into  dark  Lethe  from  a  dizzy  plank, 

When  even  the  Gods  are  reeling  on  the 
poop  ! 

To  drown  at  night,  and  have  no  sepul- 
chre !  — 

That  were  too  horrible  !  .  .  .  yet  it  may 
be 

Some  easy  chance,  that  conies  with  little 
pain, 

Might  rid  me  of  the  haunting  of  those 
eyes, 

And  these  wild  thoughts  ...  To  know 
he  roved  among 

His  old  companions  in  the  Happy  Fields, 

And  ranged  with  heroes  —  I  still  inno- 
cent ! 

Sleep  would  be  natural  then. 

Yet  will  the  old  time 

Never    return  !     never    those    peaceful 
hours  ! 

Never  that  careless  heart !   and  never- 
more, 

Ah,    nevermore   that   laughter   without 
pain  ! 

But   I,  that  languish  for  repose,  must 
fly  it, 

Nor,  save  in  daring,  doing,  taste  of  rest. 

0,  to  have  lost  all  these  !     To  have  bar- 
tered calm, 

And  all  the  irrevocable  wealth  of  youth, 

And  gained  .  .  .  what  ?    But  this  change 
had  surely  come, 

Even  were  all  things  other  than  they  are. 

I  blame  myself  o'ermuch,  who  should 
blame  time, 

And  life's  inevitable  loss,  and  fate, 

And  days  grown  lovelier  in  the  retro- 
spect. 

We  change  :  wherefore  look  back  ?    The 
path  to  safety 

Lies  forward  .  .  .  forward  ever. 


304 


(JLYTEMNKSTKA. 


[7n  patting  toward  the  house  she  recognizes  the 
shield  of  Agamemnon,  and  pause*  before  it, 

Ha  !  old  shield, 
Hide  up  for  shame  that  honest  face  of 

thine. 
Stare  not  so  bluntly  at  us  ...  0,  this 

man  ! 
Why  sticks  the  thought  of  him  so  in  my 

heart  ? 
If  I  had  loved  him  once  —  if  for  one 

hour  — 
Then  were  there  treason  in  this  falling 

off. 

But  never  did  I  feel  this  wretched  heart 
Until  it  leaped  beneath  ^Egisthus'  eyes. 
Who  could  have  so  forecounted  all  from 

first? 
From  that  flusht  moment  when  his  hand 

in  mine 
Rested  a  thought  too  long,  a  touch  too 

kind, 
To  leave  its  pulse  unwarmed  .  .  .  but  I 

remember 
I  dreamed  sweet  dreams  that  night,  and 

slept  till  dawn, 
And  woke  with  flutterings  of  a  happy 

thought, 
And  felt,  not  worse,  but  better  .  .  .  and 

now  .  .  .  now  ? 

When  first  a  strange  and  novel  tenderness 
Quivered  in  these  salt  eyes,  had  one  said 

then 
"  A  bead  of  dew  may  drag  a   deluge 

down  "  :  — 
In   that   first    pensive    pause,    through 

which  I  watched 

Unwonted  sadness  on  jEgisthus'  brows, 
Had    some   one   whispered,    "  Ay,    the 

summer-cloud 
Comes  first :  the  tempest  follows."  — 

Well,  what 's  past 
Is  past.     Perchance  the  worst 's  to  follow 

yet. 
How  thou  art   hackt,   and  hewn,   and 

bruised,  old  shield  ! 
Was  the  whole  edge  of  the  war  against 

one  man  ? 
But  one  thrust  more  upon  this  dexter 

ridge 
Had  quite  cut  through  the  double  inmost 

hide. 
He  must  have  stood  to  it  well !     0,  he 

was  cast 
I'  the  mould  of  Titans :   a  magnificent 

man, 
With  head  and  shoulders  like  a  God's. 

He  seemed 


Too  brimful  of  this  merry  vigorous  life 

To  spill  it  all  out  at  one  stab  a  the  sword. 

Yet  that  had   helped  much  ill   ...  0 
Destiny 

Makes  cowards  or  makes  culprits  of  us 
all! 

Ah,  had  some  Trojan  weapon  .  .  .  Fool ! 
fool!  fool! 

Surely  sometimes  the  unseen  Kumcniilcs 

Do    prompt    our   musing    moods   with 
wicked  hints, 

And  lash  us  for  our  crimes  ere  we  com- 
mit them. 

Here,  round  this  silver  boss,  he  cut  my 
name, 

Once  —  long  ago  :  he  cut  it  as  he  lay 

Tired   out   with    brawling    pastimes  — 
prone  —  his  limbs 

At  length  diffused  —  his  head  droopt  in 
my  lap  — 

His  spear  flung  by  :  Electra  by  the  hearth 

Sat  with  the  young  Orestes  on  her  knee  ; 

While  he,  with  an  old  broken  sword, 
hacked  out 

These  crooked  characters,  and  laughed 
to  see 

(Sprawled  from  the  unused  strength  of 
his  large  hands) 

The  marks  make  CLYTEMNESTRA. 

How  he  laughed  ! 

^Egisthus'  hands  are  smaller. 

Yet  I  know 

That  matrons  envied  me  my  husband's 
strength. 

And  I  remember  when  he  strode  among 

The  Argive  crowd  he  topped  them  by  a 
head, 

And  tall  men  stood  wide-eyed  to  look  at 
him, 

Where  his  great  plumes  went  tossing  up 
and  down 

The  brazen  prores  drawn  out  upon  the 
sand. 

War  on  his  front  was  graved,  as  on  thy 
disk, 

Shield  !  which  he  left  to  keep  his  mem- 
ory 

Grand  in  men's  mouths :  that  some  re- 
vered old  man, 

Winning  to  this  the  eyes  of  our  hot 
youth, 

Might  say,  "  T  was  here,  and  here  — 
this  dent,  and  that  — 

On  such,  and  such  a  field  (which  we  re- 
member) 

That  Agamemnon,  in  the  great  old  time, 

Held  up  the  battle." 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


305 


Now  lie  there,  and  rust ! 
Thy  uses  all  have  end.     Thy  master's 

home 
Should  harbor  none  but  friends. 

0  triple  brass, 
Iron,  and  oak  !  the  blows  of  blundering 

men 
Clang  idly  on  you  :  what  fool's  strength 

is  yours  ! 

For,  surely,  not  the  adamantine  tunic 
Of  Ares,    nor  whole   shells  of  blazing 

plates, 
Nor  ashen  spear,  nor  all  the  cumbrous 

coil 
Of  seven  bulls'   hides  may  guard  the 

strongest  king 
From  one  defenceless  woman's  quiet  hate. 

What  noise   was  that  ?    Where   can 

^Egisthus  be  ? 
JEgisthus  !  —  my  ^Egisthus  !  .  .  .  There 

again  ! 

Louder,  and  longer  —  from  the  Agora  — 
A  mighty  shout :  and  now  I.  see  i'  the 

air 
A  rolling   dust  the   wind   blows   near. 

Jlgisthus  ! 

0  much  I  fear  .  .  .  this  wild-willed  race 

of  ours 

Doth  ever,  like  a  young  unbroken  colt, 

Chafe  at  the  straightened  bridle  of  our 
state  — 

If  they  should  find  him  lone,  irresolute, 

As  is  his  wont  ...  I  know  he  lacks  the 
eye 

And  forehead  wherewith  crowned  Ca- 
pacity 

Awes  rash  Rebellion  back. 

Again  that  shout ! 

Gods  keep  .<Egisthus  safe  !   myself  will 
front 

This  novel  storm.     How  my  heart  leaps 
to  danger ! 

1  have  been  so  long  a  pilot  on  rough 

seas, 
And  almost  rudderless  ! 

0  yet 't  is  much 

To  feel  a  power,  self-centred,  self-assured, 
Bridling  a  glorious  danger  !  as  when  one 
That  knows  the  nature  of  the  elements 
Guides  some  frail  plank  with  sublime 

skill  that  wins 

Progress  from  all  obstruction  ;  and,  erect, 
Looks  bold  and  free  down  all  the  drip- 
ping stars, 

Hearing  the  hungry  storm  boom  baffled, 
by.  I 

20 


^Egisthus  ! .  .  .  hark  ! .  .  .  ^Egisthus  ! .  .  . 

there  .  .  .  ^Egisthus  ! 
I  would  to  all  the  Gods  I  knew  him  safe  ! 
Who  cornes  this  way,  guiding  his  racing 

feet 
Safe  to  us,  like  a  nimble  charioteer  ? 


IV.  CLYTEMNESTRA.     HERALD. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Now,   gloom-bird  !    are  there  prodigies 

about  ? 
What  new  ill-thing  sent  thee  before  ? 


0  Queen  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Speak,  if  thou  hast  a  voice  !    I  listen. 

HERALD. 

0  Queen  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Hath  an  ox  trodden  on  thy  tongue  ? .  .  . 
Speak  then ! 

HERALD. 

0  Queen  (for  haste  hath  caught  away  my 

breath), 
The  King  is  coming. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Say  again  —  the  King 
Is  corning  — 

HERALD. 

Even  now,  the  broad  sea-fields 
Grow  white  with  flocks  of  sails,    and 

toward  the  west 
The  sloped  horizon  teems  with  rising 

beaks. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  people  know  this  ? 

HERALD. 

Heard  you  not  the  noise  ? 
For  soon  as  this  winged  news  had  toucht 

the  gate 
The  whole  land  shouted  in  the  sun. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  soon  ! 

The  thought 's  outsped  by  the  reality, 
And  halts  agape  .  ,  .  the  King  — 


306 


CLYTKMNKSTKA. 


HERALD. 

How  she  is  moved. 
A  noble  woman ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Wherefore  beat  so  fast, 
Thou  foolish  heart  ?  't  is  not  thy  master — 

HERALD. 

Truly 
She  looks  all  over  Agamemnon's  mate. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Destiny,  Destiny  !    The  deed's  half  done. 

HERALD. 

She  will  not  speak,  save  by  that  brood- 
ing eye 

Whose  light  is  language.  Some  great 
thought,  I  see, 

Mounts  up  the  royal  chambers  of  her 
blood, 

As  a  king  mounts  his  palace  ;  holds  high 
pomp 

In  her  Olympian  bosom  ;  gains  her  face, 

Possesses  all  her  noble  glowing  cheek 

With  sudden  state ;  and  gathers  grandly 
up 

Its  slow  majestic  meanings  in  her  eyes  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  quick  this  sudden  joy  hath  taken  us, 

I  scarce  can  realize  the  sum  of  it. 

You   say  the   King  comes  here,  —  the 

King,  my  husband, 
Whom  we  have  waited  for  ten  years,  — 

0  joy  ! 
Pardon   our  seeming  roughness  at   the 

first. 

Hope,  that  will  often  fawn  upon  despair 
And  flatter  desperate  chances,  when  the 

event 
Falls  at  our  feet,  soon  takes  a  querulous 

tone, 
And   jealous  of    that   perfect   joy   she 

guards 
(Lest  the  ambrosial  fruit  by  some  rude 

hand 
Be   stol'n   away   from   her,    and    never 

tasted), 
Barks  like  a  lean  watch-dog  at  all  who 

come. 
But  now  do  you,  with  what  good  speed 

you  may, 
Make  known  this  glad  intelligence  to 


Ourselves,  within,  as  best  l>efits  a  wifi- 

And  woman,  will  prepare  my  husband's 
house. 

Also,  I  pray  you,  summon  to  our  side 

Our  cousin,  Jfegisthus.  We  would  spr;ik 
with  him. 

We  would  that  our  own  lips  should  be 
the  first 

To  break  these  tidings  to  him  ;  so  o\r- 
taining 

New  joy  by  sharing  his.  And,  for  your- 
self, 

Receive  our  gratitude.  For  this  great 
news 

Henceforth  you  hold  our  royal  love  in  fee. 

Our  fairest  fortunes  from  this  day  I  date, 

And  to  the  House  of  Tantalus  new  honor. 

HERALD. 

She  's  gone  !     With  what  a  majesty  she 

filled 
The  whole  of  space  !     The  statues  of  the 

Gods 

Are  not  so  godlike.    She  has  Here's  eyes, 
And  looks  immortal ! 


V.   CLYTEMNESTRA.     CHORUS. 

CLYTEMNESTRA  (as  she  ascend*  the  steps  oftht 
Palace). 

So  ...  while  on  the  verge 
Of  some  wild  purpose  we  hang  dizzily, 
Weighing  the  danger  of  the  leap  below 
Against  the  danger  of  retreating  steps, 
Upon  a  sudden,  some  forecast  event, 
Issuing  full-armed  from  Councils  of  the 

Gods, 
Strides  to  us,  plucks  us  by  the  hair,  and 

hurls 
Headlong  pale  conscience,  to  the  abyss 

of  crime. 
Well  —  I  shrink  not.     'T  is  but  a  leap 

in  life. 
There 's  fate  in  this.    Why  is  he  here  so 

soon  ? 
The  sight  of  whose  abhorred  eyes  will 

add 

Whatever  lacks  of  strength  to  this  re- 
solve. 
Away  with  shame  !  I  have  had  enough 

of  it. 
What 's  here  for  shame  ? .  .  .  the  weak 

against  the  strong  ? 
And  if  the  weak  be  victor  ? .  .  .  what  of 

that? 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


307 


Tush  !  .  .  .  there,  —  my  soul  is  set  to  it. 

What  need 

Of  argument  to  justify  an  act 
Necessity  compels,  and  must  absolve  ? 
I  have  been  at  play  with  scruples  —  like 

a  girl. 
Now   they   are   all   flung  by.      I   have 

talked  with  Crime 
Too  long  to   play  the   prude.      These 

thoughts  have  been 
Wild  guests   by   night.     Now   I   shall 

dare  to  do 
That  which  I  did  not  dare  to  think  .  .  . 

0,  now 
I  know  myself !     Crime  's   easier  than 

we  dream. 

CHORUS. 

Upon  the  everlasting  hills 
Throned  Justice  works,  and  waits. 
Between  the  shooting  of  a  star, 
That  falls  unseen  on  summer  nights 
Out  of  the  bosom  of  the  dark, 
And  the  magnificent  march  of  War, 
Rolled  from  angry  lands  afar 
Round  some  doomed  city-gates, 
Nothing  is  to  her  unknown  ; 

Nothing  unseen. 

Upon  her  hills  she  sits  alone, 

And  in  the  balance  of  Eternity 

Poises  against  the  What-has-been 

The  weight  of  What-shall-be. 

She  sums  the  account  of  human  ills. 

The  great  world's  hoarded  wrongs  and 

rights 

Are  in  her  treasures.     She  will  mark, 
With  inward-searching  eyes  sublime, 
The  frauds  of  Time. 
The  empty  future  years  she  fills 
Out  of  the  past.     All  human  wills 
Sway  to  her  on  her  reachless  heights. 

Wisdom  she  teaches  men,  with  tears, 
tin  the  toilful  school  of  years  : 
Climbing  from  event  to  event. 
And,  being  patient,  is  content 
To  stretch  her  sightless  arms  about, 
And  find  some  human  instrument, 
From  many  sorrows  to  work  out 
Her  doubtful,  far  accomplishment. 

She  the  two  Atridae  sent 

Upon  Ilion  :  being  intent 

The  heapt-up  wrath  of  Heaven  to  move 

Against  the  faithless  Phrygian  crime. 

Them  the  Thunder-bird  of  Jove, 


Swooping  sudden  from  above, 
Summoned  to  fates  sublime. 

She,  being  injured,  for  the  sake 
Of  her,  the  often-wedded  wife, 
(Too  loved,  and  too  adoring  ! ) 
Many  a  brazen  band  did  break 
In  many  a  breathless  battle-strife  ; 
Many  a  noble  life  did  take  ; 
Many  a  headlong  agony, 
Frenzied  shout,  and  frantic  cry, 
For  Greek  and  Trojan  storing. 
When,    the  spear  in    the  onset  being 

shivered, 

The  reeling  ranks  were  rolled  together 
Like   mad   waves    mingling    in    windy 

weather, 

Dasht  fearfully  over  and  over  each  other. 
And  the  plumes  of  Princes  were  tossed 

and  thrust, 
And    dragged    about   in   the   shameful 

dust ; 

And  the  painful,  panting  breath 
Came  and  went  in  the  tug  of  death  : 
And  the  sinews  were  loosened,  and  the 

strong  knees  stricken  : 
And  the    eyes    began    to   darken    and 

thicken : 
And  the  arm  of  the  mighty  and  terrible 

quivered. 

0  Love  !  Love  !  Love  !    How  terrible  art 

thou! 

How  terrible  ! 
0,  what  hast  thou  to  do 
With  men  of  mortal  years, 
Who  toil  below, 
And  have  enough  of  griefs  for  tears  to 

flow? 

0,  range  in  higher  spheres  ! 
Hast  thou,  0  hast  thou,  no  diviner  hues 
To  paint  thy  wings,  but  must  transfuse 
An  Iris-light  from  tears  ? 
For  human  hearts  are  all  too  weak  to 

hold  thee. 

And  how,  0  Love,  shall  human  arms  in- 
fold thee  ? 

There  is  a  seal  of  sorrow  on  thy  brow. 
There  is  a  deadly  fire  in  thy  breath. 
With  life  thou  lurest,  yet  thou  givest 

death. 
0  Love,  the  Gods  are  weak  by  reason  of 

thee  ; 
And   many   wars  have   been  upon   the 

earth. 
Thou  art  the  sweetest  source  of  saltest 

sorrow*. 


308 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Thy  blest  to-days  bring  such  unblest  to- 
morrows ; 

Thy  snfteM  hope  makes  saddest  memory. 

Thou  hadst  destruction  in  thee  1'roin  the 
birth  ; 

Incomprehensible  ! 

0  Love,  thy  brightest  bridal  garments 
Are  poisoned,  like  that  robe  of  agonies 
Which  Dcianira  wove  for  Hercules, 
And,  being  put  on,  turn   presently   to 
cerements  ! 

Thou  art  uncoiujuered  in  the  fight. 

Thou  rangest  over  land  and  sea. 

0  -let  the  foolish  nations  be  ! 

Keep  thy  divine  desire 

To  upheave    mountains    or    to   kindle 

fire 
From  the  frore  frost,  and  set  the  world 

alight. 
Why  make  thy  red  couch  in  the  damask 

cheek  ? 

Or  light  thy  torch  at  languid  eyes  ? 
Or  lie  entangled  in  soft  sighs 
On  pensive  lips  that  will  not  speak  ? 
To  sow  the  seeds  of  evil  things 
In  the  hearts  of  headstrong  kings? 
Preparing  many  a  kindred  strife 
For  the  fearful  future  hour  ? 
0  leave  the  wretched  race  of  man, 
Whose  days  are  but  the  dying  seasons' 

span  ; 

Vex  not  his  painful  life  ! 
Make  thy  immortal  sport 
In  Heaven's  high  court, 
And  cope  with  Gods  that  are  of  equal 

power. 


VI.      ELECTRA.     CHORUS.      CLY- 
TEMNESTRA. 


Now  is  at  hand  the  hour  of  retribution. 
For  my  father,  at  last  returning, 
In  great  power,  being  greatly  injured, 
Will  destroy  the  base  adulterer, 
And  efface  the  shameful  Past. 


0  child  of  the  Godlike  Agamemnon  ! 
Leave  vcngeain-r  to  tin-  power  of  Heaven  ; 
Nor  forestall  with  impious  footsteps 
The  brazen  tread  of  black  Erinnys. 


ELECTRA. 

Is  it,  besotted  with  the  adulterous  sin, 
Or,   as  with    flattery    pleasing   present 

power, 

Or,  being  intimidate,  you   speak   these 
words  ? 

CHORUS. 
Nay,  but  desiring  justice,  like  yourself. 

ELECTRA. 

Yet  Justice  ofttimes  uses  mortal  means. 

CHORUS. 

But  flings  aside  her  tools  when  work  Is 
done. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  dearest  friends,  inform  me,  went  thia 

way 
jEgisthus  ? 

CHORUS. 
Even  now,  hurrying  hitherward 

1  see  him  walk,  with  irritated  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  reed  may  show  which  way  the  tem- 
pest blows. 

That  face  is  pale,  —  those  brows  are  dark 
.  ah! 


VII.      ^EGISTHUS.      CLYTEMNES- 
TRA. 

JEGISTHUS. 

Agamemnon  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
My  husband  .  .  .  well  ? 

.EGISTHUS. 

(Whom  may  the  great  Gods  curse  !) 
Is  scarce  an  hour  hence. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
Then  that  hour  's  yet  saved 
From  sorrow.     Smile,  ^gisthus  — 

.BGISTHUS. 

Hear  me  speak. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Not  as  your  later  wont  has  been  to 
smile — 


CLYTEMNESTEA. 


309^ 


Quick,  fierce,  as  though  you  scarce  could 

hurry  out 
The  wild  .thing  fast  enough  ;  for  smil- 

ing's  sake, 
As  if  to  show  you  could  smile,  though 

in  fear 
Of  what  might   follow,  —  but   as  first 

you  smiled 
Years,  years  ago,  when  some  slow  loving 

thought 
Stole  down  your  face,  and  settled  on  your 

lips, 

As  though  a  sunbeam  halted  on  a  rose, 
And  mixed  with  fragrance,  light.     Can 

you  smile  still 
Just  so,  Jigisthus  ? 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

These  are  idle  words, 
And  like  the  wanderings  of  some  fevered 

brain  : 
Extravagant   phrases,   void  of   import, 

wild. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ah,  no !    you   cannot  smile    so,    more. 
Nor  I  ! 

.SGJSTHUS. 

Hark  !  in  an  hour  the  King — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Hush  !  listen  now,  — 
I  hear,  far  down  yon  vale,  a  shepherd 

piping 
Hard    by  his    milk-white    flock.     The 

lazy  things  ! 

How  quietly  they  sleep  or  feed  among 
The  dry  grass  and  the  acanthus  there  ! 

.  .  .  arid  he, 
He  hath  flung  his   faun-skin   by,   and 

white-ash  stick, 
You    hear    his    hymn  ?     Something    of 

Dryope. 
Faunus,  and  Pan  ...  an  old  wood  tale, 

no  doubt ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  songs  when  I  was 

young 

I  used  to  sing  between  the  valleys  there, 
Or  higher  up  among  the  red  ash-berries, 
Where  the  goats  climb,  and  gaze.  Do 

you  remember 

That  evening  when  we  lingered  all  alone, 
Below  the  city,  and  one  yellow  star 
Shook  o'er  yon  temple  ? .  .  .  ah,  and  you 

said  then, 


"Sweet,    should    this    evening    never 

change  to  night, 
But  pause,  and  pause,  and  stay  just  so, 

—  yon  star 
Still  steadfast,  and  the  moon  behind  the 

hill, 
Still  rising,   never  risen,  —  would  this 

seem  strange  ? 
Or  should  we  say,  '  why  halts  the  day 

so  late  ? '  " 
Do  you  remember  ? 

-EGISTHUS. 

Woman  !  woman  !  this 
Surpasses  frenzy  !  Not  a  breath  of  time 
Between  us  and  the  clutch  of  Destiny,  — 
Already  sound  there  footsteps  at  our 

heels, 

Already  comes  a  heat  against  our  cheek, 
Already  fingers  cold  among  our  hair, 
And  you  speak  lightly  thus,  as  though 

the  day 
Lingered    toward    nuptial    hours  !  .  .  . 

awake  !  arouse  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  do  wake  .  .  .  well,  the  King  — 


Draws  near. 


Even  while  we  speak 
And  we  — 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Must  meet  him. 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

Meet  ?  ay  ...  how  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

As  mortals  should  meet  fortune—  calmly. 

^EGISTHUS. 

Quick  ! 
Consult  !  consult  !     Yet  there  is  time  to 

choose 
The  path  to  follow. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  have  chosen  it 
Long  since. 

^EGISTHTJS. 

How?  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0,  have  we  not  had  ten  years 
To  ripen  counsel,  and  mature  resolve  ? 
What 's  to  add  now  ? 


310 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


^GISTHUS. 

I  comprehend  you  not. 
The  time  is  plucking  at  our  sleeve. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^Egisthus, 
There  shall  be  time  for  deeds,  and  soon 

enough, 
Let  that  come  when  it  may.     And  it 

may  be 
Deeds  must  be  done  shall  shut  and  shrivel 

up 
All  quiet  thoughts,  and  quite  preclude 

repose 
To  the  end  of  time.     Upon  this  awful 

strait 

And  promontory  of  our  mortal  life 
We  stand  between  what  was,  and  is  not 

yet. 

The  Gods  allot  to  us  a  little  space, 
Before   the   contests  which   must   soon 

begin, 
For  calmer   breathing.     All  before  lies 

dark, 

And  difficult,  and  perilous,  and  strange  ; 
And  all   behind  .  .  .  What   if  we  take 

one  look, 
One    last  long   lingering    look   (before 

Despair, 
The  shadow  of  failure,  or  remorse,  which 

often 
Waits  on  success,  can   come  'twixt  us 

and  it, 
And  darken  all)  at  that  which  yet  must 

seem 
Undimmed   in    the   long   retrospect  of 

years,  — 

The  beautiful  imperishable  Past ! 
Were  this  not  natural,  being  innocent 

now 
—  At  least  of  that  which  is  the  greater 

crime  ? 
To-night  we  shall  not  be  so. 

.fiGISTHUS. 

Ah,  to-night  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

All  will  be  done  which  now  the  Gods 

foresee. 
The  sun  shines  still. 

2BGISTHU8. 

I  oft  have  marked  some  day 
Begin  all  gold  in  its  flusht  orient, 
With  splendid  promise  to  the  waiting 
world, 


And  turn  to  blackness  ere  the  sun  ran 

down. 
So   draws   our  love   to   its   dark  close. 

To-night  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
Shall  bring  our  bridals,  my  Beloved  ! 

For,  either 

Upon  the  melancholy  shores  of  Death 
(One  shadow  near  the  doors  of  Pluto) 

greeted 

By  pale  Proserpina,  our  steps  shall  be, 
Or    else,    secure,    in    the  great   empty 

palace 
We  shall  sleep  crowned  —  no  noise  to 

startle  us  — 
And  Argos  silent   round   us  —  all  our 

own  ! 

JEGISTHUS. 

In   truth  I   do  not  dare  to  think  this 

thing.  * 
For  all  the  Greeks  will  hate  us. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What  of  that ! 

If  that  they  do  not  harm  us,  —  as  who 
shall  ? 

.EGISTHU8. 

Moreover,  though  we  triumph  in  the  act 

(And  we  may  fail,  and  fall)  we  shall  go 
down 

Covered  with  this  reproach  into  the 
tomb, 

Hunted  by  all  the  red  Eumenides  ; 

And,  in  the  end,  the  ghost  of  him  we 
slew, 

Being  beforehand  there,  will  come  be- 
tween 

Us  and  the  awful  Judges  of  the  dead  ! 

And  no  one  on  this  earth  will  pray  for 
us ; 

And  no  hand  will  hang  garlands  on  our 
urns, 

Either  of  man,  or  maid,  or  little  child  j 

But  we  shall  be  dishonored. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  faint  heart ! 
When  this  poor  life  of  ours  is  done  with 

—  all 

Its  foolish  days  put  by  —  its  bright  and 

dark  — 
Its  praise  and  blame  —  rolled  quite  away 

—  gone  o'er 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


311 


Like  some  brief  pageant  —  will  it  stir  us 

more, 
Where  we  are  gone,  how  men  may  hoot 

or  shout 
After  our  footsteps,  than  the  dust  and 

garlands 
A  few  mad  boys  and  girls  fling  in  the 

air 
When  a  great  host  is  passed,  can  cheer 

or  vex 

The  minds  of  men  already  out  of  sight 
Toward  other  lands,  with  paean  and  with 

pomp 
Arrayed  near  vaster  forces  ?    For    the 

future, 
We  will  smoke  hecatombs,  and  build 

new  fanes, 

And  be  you  sure  the  gods  deal  leniently 
With  those  who  grapple  for  their  life, 

and  pluck  it 

From  the  closed  grip  of  Fate,  albeit  per- 
chance 
Some  ugly  smutch,  some  drop  of  blood 

or  so, 
A  spot  here,  there  a  streak,  or  stain  of 

gore, 
Should  in  the  contest  fall  to  them,  and 

mar 
That  life's  original  whiteness. 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

Tombs  have  tongues 
That  talk  in  Hades.     Think  it !     Dare 

we  hope, 
This  done,  to  be  more  happy  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

My  Beloved, 

We  are  not  happy,  —  we  may  never  be, 
Perchance,   again.     Yet  it  is  much   to 
,  think 

jWe  have  been  so  :  and  even  though  we 

must  weep, 
We  have  enjoyed. 

The  roses  and  the  thorns 
We   have  pluckt    together.     We   have 

proved  both.     Say, 
Was  it  not  worth  the  bleeding  hands 

they  left  us 
To   have   won    such   flowers  ?    And  if 

'twere  possible 
To   keep   them   still, — keep   even   the 

withered  leaves, 
Even  the  withered  leaves  are  worth  our 

care. 
We  will  not  tamely  give  up  life,  —  such 

life! 


What  though  the  years  before,  like  those 

behind, 
Be    dark    as  clouds   the   thunder    sits 

among, 
Tipt  only  here  and  there  with  a  wan 

gold 
More   bright  for  rains   between  ?  —  't  is 

much,  —  't  is  more, 

For  we  shall  ever  think  ' '  the  sun 's  be- 
hind. 
The  sun  must  shine  before  the  day  goes 

down  ! " 
Anything    better  than   the  long,    long 

night, 

And  that  perpetual  silence  of  the  tomb ! 
'T  is  not  for  happier  hours,  but  life  itself 
Which  may  bring  happier  hours,  we 

strike  at  Fate. 
Why,  though  from  all  the  treasury  of 

the  Past 

'T  is  but  one  solitary  gem  we  save  — 
One  kiss  more  such  as  we  have  kist,  one 

smile, 
One  more  embrace,  one  night  more  such 

as  those 
Which  we  have  shared,  how  costly  were 

the  prize, 
How  richly  worth  the  attempt !     Indeed, 

I  know, 
When  yet  a  child,  in  those  dim  pleasant 

dreams 
A  girl  will  dream,   perchance  in  twilit 

hours, 
Or  under  eve's  first  star  (when  we  are 

young 

Happiness  seems  so  possible,  —  so  near  ! 
One  says,  "it  must  go  hard,  but  I  shall 

find  it ! ") 
Ofttimes  I  mused,  —  "My  life  shall  be 

my  own, 
To  make  it  what  I  will."     It  is  their 

fault 
(I  thought)  who  miss  the  true  delights. 

I  thought 
Men  might  have  saved  themselves  :  they 

flung  away, 

Too  easily  abasht,  life's  opening  prom- 
ise : 

But  all  things  will  be  different  for  me. 
For  I  felt  life  so  strong  in  me  !  indeed 
I  was  so  sure  of  my  own  power  to  love 
And  to  enjoy,  —  I  had  so  much  to  give, 
I  said,  "be  sure  it  must  win  something 

back  ! " 
Youth  is  so  confident !     And  though  I 

saw 
All  women  sad,  —  not  only  those  I  knew, 


312 


CLYTEMNESTKA 


As  Helen  (whom  from  youth  I  knew, 

nor  rvcr 

Divined  that  sad  imjicnctralilf  smile 
Which  oft  would  darken   through   her 

lustrous  eyes, 
As  drawing  slowly  down  o'er  her  cold 

cheek 
The  yellow  braids  of  odorous  hair,  she 

turned 
From     Menelaus     praising     her,      and 

sighed,  — 
That  was    before  he,    flinging  bitterly 

down 
The    trampled    parsley-crown   and   un- 

drained  goblet, 
Cursed  before  all  the  Gods  his  sudden 

shame 

And  young  Hermione's  deserted  yoiith  !) 
Not  only  her,  —  but  all  whose  lives  I 

learned, 

Medea,  Deianira,  Ariadne, 
And  many  others,  —  all  weak,  wronged, 

opprest, 

Or  sick  and  sorrowful,  as  I  am  now,  — 
Yet  in  their  fate  I  would  not  see  my 

own, 
Nor  grant   allegiance   to   that    general 

law 

From  which  a  few,  I  knew  a  very  few, 
With  whom  it  seemed  I  also  might  be 

numbered, 

Had  yet  escaped  securely  :  —  so  exempt- 
ing 

From  this  world's  desolation  everywhere 
One  fate  —  my  own  ! 

Well,  that  was  foolish  !     Now 
I  am  not  so  exacting.     As  we  move 
Further  and  further  down  the  path  of 

fate 
To  the  sure  tomb,  we  yield  up,  one  by 

one, 
Our  claims  on  Fortune,   till  with  each 

new  year 

We  seek  less  and  go  further  to  obtain  it. 
'T  is  the  old  tale,  —  aye,  all  of  us  must 

learn  it ! 
But    yet    I    would    not   empty-handed 

stand 
Before  the  House  of  Hades.    Still  there  'a 

life, 
And  hope  with  life  ;  and  much  that  may 

be  done. 
Look  up,  0  thou  most  dear  and  cherisht 

head  ! 
We  '11  strive   still,    conquering ;    or,    if 

falling,  fall 
In  sight  of  grand  results. 


aonratrs. 

May  these  things  be  ! 

I  know  not.  All  is  vague.  I  should  In- 
strong 

Even  were  you  weak.  'T  is  otherwise,  — 
I  see 

No  path  to  safety  sure.  We  have  done 
ill  things. 

Best  let  the  past  be  past,  lest  new  griefs 
come. 

Best  we  part  now. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Part  !  what,  to  part  from  thee ! 
Never  till  death,  —  not  in  death  even, 
part ! 

JEGISTHU8. 

But  one  course  now  is  left. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  that  is  — 


Flight. 


.EGISTHTTS. 
CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Coward  ! 

2EGISTHUS. 

I  care  not. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Flight !  I  am  a  Queen. 
A  goddess  once  you  said,  —  and  why  not 

goddess  ? 

Seeing  the  Gods  are  mightier  than  we 
By  so  much  more  of  courage.     0,  not  I, 
But  you,  are  mad. 

.fiGISTHUS. 

Nay,  wiser  than  I  was. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  you  will  leave  me  ? 

.ffiGISTHITS. 

Not  if  you  will  come. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
This  was  the  Atlas  of  the  world  I  built ! 

aanonn. 

Flight !  .  .  .  yes,  I  know  not  .  .  .  some- 
where .  .  .  anywhere. 

You  come  ?  .  .  .  you  come  not  ? .  .  .  well  ? 
...  no  time  to  pause  I 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


313 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  this  is   he  —  this  he,  the  man  I 

loved  ! 

And  this  is  retribution  !  0  my  heart ! 
0  Agamemnon,  how  art  thou  avenged  ! 
And  I  have  done  so  much  for  him  !  .  •.  . 

would  do 
So  much  !  .  .  .  a   universe  lies  ruined 

here. 

Now  by  Apollo,  be  a  man  for  once  ! 
Be  for  once  strong,  or  be  forever  weak  ! 
If  shame  be  dead,  and  honor  be  no  more, 
No  more  true  faith,  nor  that  which  in 

old  time 
Made  us  like  Gods,  sublime  in  our  high 

place, 
Yet  all  surviving  instincts  warn  from 

flight. 
Flight  !  —  0,    impossible  !      Even   now 

the  steps 
Of  fate   are   at  the  threshold.     Which 

way  fly? 

For  every  avenue  is  barred  by  death. 
Will  these  not  scout  your  flying  heels  ? 

If  now 
They  hate  us  powerful,  will  they  love  us 

weak  ? 
No  land   is  safe  ;  nor  any  neighboring 

king 

Will  harbor  Agamemnon's  enemy. 
Reflect  on  Troy  ;  he/  ashes  smoulder  yet. 

-EGISTHUS. 

Her  words  compel  me  with  their  awful 

truth. 
For  so  would  vengeance  hound  and  earth 

us  down. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

If  I  am  weak  to  move  you  by  that  love 
You  swore   long  since  —  and  sealed  it 

with  false  lips  !  — 
Yet  lives  there  nothing  Of  the  ambitious 

will? 
Of   those   proud   plots,    and   dexterous 

policy, 
On  which  you  builded  such  high  hopes, 

and  swore 

To  rule  this  people  Agamemnon  rules  ; 
Supplant  him  eminent  on  his  own  throne, 
And  push  our  power  through  Greece  ? 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

The  dream  was  great. 
It  was  a  dream.     We  dreamt  it  like  a 
king. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ay,  and  shall  so  fulfil  it  —  like  a  King  ! 
Who  talks  of  flight  ?     For  now,  bethink 

you  well, 

If  to  live  on,  the  byword  of  a  world, 
Be  any  gain,  even  such  flight  offers  not. 
Will   long-armed  Vengeance  never  find 

you  out 
When  you  have  left  the  weapon  in  her 

hands  ? 
Be  bold,  and  meet  her  !     Who  forestall 

the  bolts 
Of  heaven,  the  Gods  deem  worthy  of  the 

Gods. 

Success  is  made  the  measure  of  our  acts. 
And,  think,  ^Egisthus,  there  has  been 

one  thought 

Before  us  in  the  intervals  of  years, 
Between  us  ever  in  the  long  dark  nights, 
When,  lying  all  awake,  we  heard  the 

wind. 
Did  you  shrink   then  ?  or,  only   closer 

drawing 
Your  lips  to  mine,  your  arms  about  my 

neck, 
Say,   "  Who  would   fear  such  chances, 

when  he  saw 
Behind  them  such  a  prize  for  him  as 

this  ? " 
Do  you  shrink  now  ?    Dare  you  put  all 

this  from  you  ? 
Revoke  the  promise  of  those  years,  and 

say 
This  prospect  meets  you  unprepared  at 

last? 

Our  motives  are  so  mixt  in  their  begin- 
nings 

And  so  confused,  we  recognize  them  not 
Till  they  are  grown  to  acts ;  but  ne'er 

were  ours 
So  blindly  wov'n,  but  what  we  both  un-J 

tangled 

Out  of  the  intricacies  of  the  heart 
One  purpose  :  — being  found,  best  grap- 
ple to  it. 
For  to  conceive  ill  deeds  yet  dare  not  do 

them, 

This  is  not  virtue,  but  a  twofold  shame. 
Between  the  culprit  and  the  demigod 
There  's  but  one  difference  men  regard — 

success. 
The    weakly-wicked    shall    be    doubly 

damned  ! 

.EGISTHUS. 

I  am  not  weak  .  .  .  what  will  you  ?  .  .  . 
0,  too  weak 


314 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


To  bear  this  scorn  !  .  .  .  She  is  a  godlike 

fiend, 
And  hell  and  heaven  seem  meeting  in 

her  eyes. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
Those   who   on   perilous  ventures  once 

embark 
Should  bum  their  ships,  nor  ever  dream 

return. 

Better,  though  all  Olympus  marched  on  us, 
To  die  like  fallen  Titans,  scorning 

Heaven, 
Than  live  like  slaves  iu  sconi  of  our  own 

selves  ! 

yEGISTHUS. 

We  wait  then  ?    Good  !  and  dare  this 

desperate  chance. 
And   if  we   fall   (as  we,  I  think,  must 

fall) 

It  is  but  some  few  sunny  hours  we  lose, 
Some  few  bright  days.  True  !  and  a 

little  less 

Of  life,  or  else  of  wrong  a  little  more, 
What  's  that  ?     For  one  shade  more  or 

less  the  night 
Will  scarce  seem  darker  or  lighter,  —  the 

long  night  ! 

We  '11  fall  together,  if  we  fall ;  and  if — 
0,  if  we  live  !  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ay,  that  was  noblier  thought. 
Now  you  grow  back  into  yourself,  your 

true  self. 
My  King  !  my  chosen  !  my  glad  careless 

helpmate 
In  the  old  time  !  we  shared  its  pleasant 

days 
Royally,  did  we  not  ?    How  brief  they 

were ! 
Nor  will  I  deem  you  less  than  what  I 

know 

You  have  it  in  you  to  become,  for  this 
Strange  freakish  fear,  —  this  passing  brief 

alarm. 

Do  I  not  know  the  noble  steed  will  start 
Aside,  scared  lightly  by  a  straw,  a 

shadow, 
A  thorn -bush  in  the  way,  while  the  dull 

mule 

Plods  stupidly  adown  the  dizziest  paths  ? 
And  oft  indeed,  such  trifles  will  dismay 
The  finest  and  most  eager  spirits,  which 

7* 


Daunt  not  a  duller  mind.     0  love,  bt 

sure 

Whate'er  betide,  whether  for  well  or  ill, 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  bound  up  in  one 

skein  ; 

Clotho  must  cut  them  both  iuseparate. 
You  dare  not  leave  me  —  had  you  wings 

for  flight  ! 
You  shall  not  leave  me  !     You  are  mine, 

indeed, 
(As  1  arn  yours  !)  by  my  strong  right  of 

grief. 

Not  death  together,  but  together  life  ! 
Life  —  life  with  safe  and  honorable  years, 
And  power  to  do  with  these  that  which 

we  would  ! 
—  His   lips  comprest  —  his  eye  dilates 

—  he  is  saved  ! 

0,  when  strong  natures  into  frailer  ones 
Have  struck  deep  root,  if  one  exalt  not 

both, 
Both  must  drag  down  and  perish  ! 

jEGISTHUS. 

If  we  should  live  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  we  shall  live. 

.BGI8THUS. 

Yet  ...  yet  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What  !  shrinking  still  ? 
I  '11  do  the  deed.     Do  not  stand  off 
from  me. 


Terrible  Spirit  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Nay,  not  terrible, 

Not  to  thee  terrible  —  0  say  not  so  ! 
To  thee  I  never  have  been  anything 
But  a  weak,  passionate,  unhappy  woman, 
(0  woe  is  me  !)  and  now  you  fear  me  — 


.SGISTHUS. 
But  rather  worship. 


No, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  my  heart,  my  heart, 
It  sends  up  all  its  anguish  in  this  cry  — 
Love  me  a  little  ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


315 


jEGISTJIUS. 

What  a  spell  she  has 
To  sway  the  inmost  courses  of  the  soul  ! 
My  spirit  is  held  up  to  such  a  height 
I  dare  not  breathe.     How  finely  sits  this 

sorrow 

Upon  her,  like  the  garment  of  a  God  ! 
I  cannot  fathom  her.     Does  the  same 

birth 

Bring  forth  the  monster  and  the  demi- 
god ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  will  not  doubt !  All 's  lost,  if  love  be 
lost,  — 

Peace,  honor,  innocence,  —  gone,  gone  ! 
all  gone  ! 

And  you,  too  —  you,  poor  baffled  crown- 
less  schemer, 

Whose  life  my  love  makes  royal,  clothes 
in  purple, 

Establishes  in  state,  without  me,  answer 
me, 

What  should  you  do  but  perish,  as  is  fit  ? 

0  love,  you  dare  not  cease  to  love  me  now ! 
We  have  let  the  world  go  by  us.     We 

have  trusted 

To  ourselves  only  :  if  we  fail  ourselves 
What  shall  avail  us  now  ?     Without  my 

love 

What  rests  for  you  but  universal  hate, 
And  Agamemnon's  sword  ?    Ah,   no  — 

you  love  me, 
Must  love  me,    better   than  you  ever 

loved,  — 

Love  me,  I  think,  as  you  love  life  itself ! 
^gisthus  !     Speak,  ^Egisthus  ! 

.fiGISTHUS. 

0  great  heart, 

1  am  all  yours.     Do  with  me  what  you 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0,  if  you  love  me,  I  have  strength  for 

both. 
And  you  do  love  me  still  ? 

.SGISTHU8. 

0  more,  thrice  more, 
Thrice  more  than  wert  thou  Aphrodite's 

self 

Stept  zoned  and  sandalled  from  the  Olym- 
pian Feast 

Or  first  revealed  among  the  pink  sea- 
foam. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Whate'er  I  am,  be  sure  that  I  am  that 
Which  thou  hast  made  me,  —  nothing  of 

myself. 

Once,  all  unheedful,  careless  of  myself, 
And  wholly  ignorant  of  what  I  was, 
I   grew  up  as  a  reed   some  wind   will 

touch, 
And  wake  to  prophecy,  —  till  then  all 

mute, 

And  void  of  melody,  —  a  foolish  weed  ! 
My  soul  was  blind,  and  all  my  life  was 

dark, 

And  all  my  heart  pined  with  some  igno- 
rant want. 

I  moved  about,  a  shadow  in  the  house, 
And  felt  unwedded  though  1  was  a  wife  ; 
And  all  the  men  and  women  which  I 

saw 
Were    but  as   pictures    painted    on    a 

wall : 

To  me  they  had  not  either  heart,  or  brain, 
Or  lips,  or  language,  —  pictures  !  noth- 
ing more. 
Then,   suddenly,   athwart  those  lonely 

hours 
Which,  day  by  day  dreamed  listlessly 

away, 

Led  to  the  dark  and  melancholy  tomb, 
Thy  presence  passed   and  touched  me 

with  a  soul. 

My  life  did  but  begin  when  I  found  thee. 
0  what  a  strength  was  hidden  in  this 

heart  ! 

As,  all  unvalued,  in  its  cold  dark  cave 
Under  snow  hills,  some  rare  and  priceless 

gem 
May  sparkle  and  burn,  so  in  this  life  of 

mine 
Love  lay  shut  up.     You  broke  the  rock 

away, 

You  lit  upon  the  jewel  that  it  hid, 
You  plucked  it  forth,  —  to  wear  it,  my 

Beloved  ! 

To  set  in  the  crown  of  thy  dear  life  ! 
To  embellish  fortune  !     Cast  it  not  away. 
Now  call  me  by  the  old  familiar  names  : 
Call  me  again  your  Queen,  as  once  you 

used  ; 
Your  large-eyed  Here  ! 

-ffiGISTHUS. 

0,  you  are  a  Queen 
That  should  have  none  but  Gods  to  ruU 

over  ! 
Make  me  immortal  with  one  costly  kiss ! 


516 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


VIII.     CHORUS.    ELECTRA. 
TEMNESTRA.     ^GISTHUS. 

CHORUS. 
lo  !  lo  !     I  hour  the  people  shout. 


ELECTRA. 

See  how  these  two  do  mutually  confer, 
Hatching   new   infamy.      Now   will   he 

dare, 

(n  his  unbounded  impudence,  to  meet 
My  father's  eyes  ?    The  hour  is  nigh  at 

hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  love,  be  bold  !  the  hour  is  nigh  at  hand. 

ELECTRA. 

Laden  with  retribution,  lingering  slow. 


A  time  in  travail  with  some  great  distress. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Nay,  rather  safety  for  the  rest  of  time. 
0  love  !  0  hate  ! 

ELECTRA. 

O  vengeance  ! 


.SGISTHUS. 


If  favoring  fate  — 


0  wild  chance 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Despair  is  more  than  fate. 

CHORUS. 
lo  !  lo  !    The  King  is  on  his  march. 

.EGISTHTJS. 
Did  you  hear  that  ? 

ELECTRA. 

The  hour  is  nigh  at  hand  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Leave  me  to  deal  with  these.  I  know 
the  arts 

That  guide  the  doubtful  purpose  of  dis- 
course 

Through  many  windings  to  the  appointed 
goal. 

I  '11  draw  them  on  to  such  a  frame  of 
mind 


As  best  befits  our  purpose.  You,  mean- 
while, 

Scatter  vague  words  among  the  other 
crowd, 

Lest  the  event,  when  it  is  due,  fall  foul 

Of  unpropitious  natures. 

.SGI8THU8. 

Do  you  fear 

The  helpless,  blind  ill-will  of  such  a 
crowd  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  only  fears  mankind  who  knows  them 

not. 

But  him  I  praise  not  who  despises  them. 
Whence  come,  Electra  ? 

ELECTRA, 

From  m}r  father's  hearth 
To  meet  him  ;  for  the  hour  is  nigh  at 
hand. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

So  do  our  hopes  race  hotly  to  one  end, 
(A  noble  rivalry  !)  as  who  shall  first 
Embrace  this  happy  fortune.     Tarry  not. 
We  too  will  follow. 

ELECTRA. 

Justice,  0  be  swift ! 


IX.     CLYTEMNESTRA.     CHORUS. 
SEMI-CHORUS.     HERALD. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A    froward    child  !     She 's    gone.     My 

blood  's  in  her. 
Her  father's,  too,  looks  out  of  that  proud 

face. 
She  is  too  bold  ...  ha,  well  —  JEgis- 

thus  ?  .  .  .  gone  ! 

0  fate  !  to  be  a  woman  !    You  great  Gods, 
Why  did  you  fashion  me  in  this  soft 

mould  ? 
Give   me  these   lengths  of  silky  hair? 

These  hands 
Too  delicately  dimpled  !  and  these  arms 
Too   white,    too  weak  !    yet  leave  the 

man's  heart  in  me, 
To  mar  your  masterpiece,  —  that  I  should 

perish, 
Who  else  had  won  renown  among  my 

p*ers» 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


317 


A  man,  with  men,  —  perchance  a  god 

with  you, 
Had  you  but  better  sexed  me,  you  blind 

Gods! 
But,  as  for  man,  all  things  are  fitting  to 

him. 
He  strikes  his  fellow  'mid  the  clanging 

shields, 
And  leaps  among  the  smoking  walls,  and 

takes 
Some  long-haired  virgin  wailing  at  the 

shrines, 
Her  brethren  having  fallen  ;   and  you 

Gods 
Commend  him,  crown  him,  grant  him 

ample  days, 

And  dying  honor,  and  an  endless  peace 
Among  the  deep  Elysian  asphodels. 
O  fate,  to  be  a  woman  !     To  be  led 
Dumb,  like  a  poor  mule,  at  a  master's 

will, 

And  be  a  slave,  though  bred  in  palaces, 
And  be  a  fool,  though  seated  with  the 

wise,  — 

A  poor  and  pitiful  fool,  as  I  am  now, 
Loving  and  hating  my  vain  life  away  ! 


These  flowers  —  we  plucked  them 
At  morning,  and  took  them 
From  bright  bees  that  sucked  them 
And  warm  winds  that  shook  them 
'Neath  blue  hills  that  o'erlook  them. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

"With  the  dews  of  the  meadow 
Our  rosy  warm  fingers 
Sparkle  yet,  and  the  shadow 
Of  the  summer-cloud  lingers 
In  the  hair  of  us  singers. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHOKtJS. 

Ere  these  buds  on  our  altars 
Fade  ;  ere  the  forkt  fire, 
Fed  with  pure  honey,  falters 
And  fails  :  louder,  higher 
Raise  the  Paean. 

SECOND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Draw  nigher, 

Stand  closer  !     First  praise  we 
The  Father  of  all. 
To  him  the  song  raise  we. 
Over  Heaven's  golden  wall 
Let  it  fall !     Let  it  fall ! 


FIRST   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then  Apollo,  the  king  of 
The  lyre  and  the  bow  ;       • 
Who  taught  us  to  sing  of 
The  deeds  that  we  know,  — 
Deeds  well  done  long  ago. 

SECOND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Next,  of  all  the  Immortals, 
Athene's  gray  eyes  ; 
Who  sits  throned  in  our  portals, 
Ever  fair,  ever  wise. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Neither  dare  we  despise 
To  extol  the  great  Here. 

SECOND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  then, 

As  is  due,  shall  our  song 
Be  of  those  among  men 
Who  were  brave,  who  were  strong, 
Who  endured. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  wrong 

Of  the  Phrygian  :  and  Ilion's  false  sons : 
And  Scamander's  wild  wave 
Through  the  bleak  plain  that  runs. 

SECOND   SEMI-CHORUS. 

Then,  the  death  of  the  brave. 

FIRST  SEMI-CHORUS. 

Last,  of  whom  the  Gods  save 
For  new  honors  :  of  them  none 
So  good  or  so  great 
As  our  chief  Agamemnon 
The  crown  of  our  State. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  friends,  true  hearts,  rejoice  with  me  ! 

This  day 
Shall  crown  the  hope  of  ten  uncertain 

years  ! 

CHORUS. 
For  Agamemnon  cannot  be  far  off — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  comes  —  and  yet  —  0  Heaven  pre- 
serve us  all ! 

My  heart  is  weak — there's  One  ho  brings 
not  back ; 


318 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Who  went  with  him ;    who  will   not 

come  again  ; 
Whom  wdfehall  never  see  !  — 

CHORUS. 

0  Queen,  for  whom, 

Lamenting  thus,  is  your  great  heart  cast 
down  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  earliest  loved — the  early  lost!  my 


child  — 


Iphigenia  ? 


CHORUS. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
She  —  my  child  — 


That  was  a  terrible  necessity  ! 


—  Alas! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Was  it  necessity  ?    0  pardon,  friends, 
But  in  the  dark,  unsolaced  solitude, 
Wild  thoughts  come  to  me,  and  perplex 

my  heart. 

This,  which  you  call  a  dread  necessity, 
Was  it  a  murder  or  a  sacrifice  ? 

CHORUS. 
It  was  a  God  that  did  decree  the  death. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

'T  is  through  the  heart   the   Gods  do 

speak  to  us. 

High  instincts  are  the  oracles  of  heaven. 
Did  ever  heart,  —  did  ever  God,  before, 
Suggest  such  foul  infanticidal  lie  ? 

CHORUS. 

Be  comforted  !    The  universal  good 
Needed  this  single,  individual  loss. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Can  all  men's  good  be  helped  by  one 
man's  crime  ? 

CHORUS. 

He  loosed  the  Greeks  from  Aulis  by  that 
deed. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O   casual   argument  !      Who  gave   the 

Greeks 
Such  bloody  claim  upon  a  virgin's  life  ? 


Shall  the  pure  bleed  to  purge  impurity  ? 
A  hundred  Helens  were  not  worth  that 

death  ! 
What !  had  the  manhood  of  combined 

Greece, 
Whose  boast  was  in  its  untamed  strength, 

no  help 
Better  than  the  spilt  blood  of  one  poor 

girl? 
Or,  if  it  were  of  need  that  blood  should 

flow, 

What  God  ordained  him  executioner  ? 
Was    it    for    him    the    armament  was 

planned  ? 
For  him  that  angry  Greece  was  leagued 

in  war? 

For  him,  or  Menelaus,  was  this  done  ? 
Was  the  cause  his,  or  Menelaus'  cause  ? 
Was  he  less  sire  than  Menelaus  was  ? 
He,  too,  had  children  ;  did  he  murder 

them  ? 
0,  was  it  manlike  ?  was  it  human,  even  ? 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  it  was  an  evil  thing. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  friends,  if  any  one  among  you  all, 

If  any  be  a  mother,  bear  with  me  ! 

She  was  my  earliest  born,  my  best  be- 
loved. 

The  painful  labor  of  that  perilous  birth 

That  gave  her  life  did  almost  take  my 
own. 

He  had  no  pain.     He  did  not  bring  her 
forth. 

How  should  he,  therefore,  love  her  as  I 
loved  ? 

CHORUS. 

Ai  !  ai !  alas  !      Our    tears  run  down 
with  yours. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
0,  who  shall  say  with  what  delicious 

tears, 
With  what  ineffable  tenderness,  while 

he 
Took  his  blithe  pastime  on  the  windy 

plain, 
Among  the  ringing  camps,  and  neighing 

steeds, 

First  of  his  glad  compeers,  I  sat  apart, 
Silent,  within  the  solitary  house  : 
Rocking  the  little  child  upon  my  breast ; 
And  soothed  its  soft  eyes  into  sleep  with 

song ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


319 


CHORUS. 

Ai !  ai  !  unhappy,  sad,  unchilded  one  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Or,   when  I  taught,    from   inarticulate 

sounds, 
The  little,  lisping   lips,  to  breathe  his 

name. 
Now  they  will  never  breathe  that  name 

again  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  for  Hades  has  not  any  hope, 
Since  Thracian  women  lopped  the  tune- 
ful head 
Of  Orpheus,  and  Heracleus  is  no  more. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 
Or,  spread  in  prayer,  the  helpless,  infant 

hands, 
That  they,  too,  might  invoke  the  Gods 

for  him. 

Alas,  who  now  invokes  the  Gods  for  her  ? 
Unwedded,    hapless,    gone   to  glut  the 

womb 
Of  dark,  untimely  Orcus  ! 

CHORUS. 

Ai  !  alas  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  would  have  died,  if  that  could  be,  for 

her  ! 

When  life  is  half-way  set  to  feeble  eld, 
And  memory  more  than  hope,  and  to 

dim  eyes 

The  gorgeous  tapestry  of  existence  shows 
Mothed,    fingered,    frayed,    and    bare, 

't  were  not  so  hard 
To    fling  away  this  ravelled  skein   of 

life, 

Which  else,  a  little  later,  Fate  had  cut. 
And  who  would  sorrow  for  the  o'erblown 

rose 
Sharp  winter  strews  about  its  own  bleak 

thorns  ? 
But,  cropped  before  the  time,  to  fall  so 

young ! 

And  wither  in  the  gloomy  crown  of  Dis ! 
Never  to  look  upon  the  blessed  sun  — 

CHORUS. 

Ai !  ai  !  alinon  !  woe  is  me,  this  grief 
Strikes  pity  paralyzed.     All  words  are 
weak  ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

And  I  had  dreamed  such  splendid  Streams 

for  her  !  * 

Who  would   not   so  for  Agamemnon's 

child? 
For  we  had  hoped  that  she,  too,  in  her 

time 
Would  be  the  mother  of  heroic  men  ! 

CHORUS. 

There  rises  in  my  heart  an  awful  fear, 

Lest  from  these  evils  darker  evils  come  ; 

For  heaven  exacts,  for  wrong,  the  utter- 
most tear, 

And  death  hath  language  after  life  is 
dumb  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

It  works  !  it  works  ! 

CHORUS. 

Look,  some  one  comes  this  way. 

HERALD. 

0  Honor  of  the  House  of  Tantalus  ! 
The  king's  wheels  echo  in  the  brazen 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Our  heart  is  half-way  there,  to  welcome 

him. 
How  looks  he  ?    Well  ?    And  all  our 

long-lost  friends  — 
Their  faces  grow  before  me  !     Lead  the 

way 
Where   we  may  meet  them.     All  our 

haste  seems  slow. 

CHORUS. 

Would  that  he  brought  his  dead  child 
back  with  him  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Now  let  him  come.     The  mischief  works 
apace  ! 


X.     CHORUS. 

CHORUS. 

The  winds  were  lulled  in  Aulis  ;  and  the 

day, 
Down-sloped,  was  loitering  to  the  lazy 

west. 
There  wts  no  motion  of  the  glassy  bay, 


320 


f'LYTEMNESTRA. 


But  all  things  by  a  heavy  light  opprest. 
Windless,    cut   off    from    the   destined 

way,  — 
Dark  shrouds,  distinct  against  the  lurid 

lull,  - 
Dark  ropes  hung  useless,   loose,    from 

mast  to  hull,  — 
The  black  ships  lay  abreast. 
Not  any  cloud  would  cross  the  brooding 

skies. 
The  distant  sea  boomed  faintly.  Nothing 

more. 
They  walked  about    upon   the  yellow 

shore  ; 

Or,  lying  listless,  huddled  groups  supine, 
With  faces  turned  toward  the  fiat  sea- 
spine, 
They  planned  the  Phrygian  battle  o'er 

and  o'er  ; 
Till  each  grew  sullen,   and  would  talk 

no  more, 
But  sat,  dumb-dreaming.     Then  would 

some  one  rise, 
And  look  toward  the  hollow  hulls,  with 

haggard,  hopeless  eyes  — 
Wild  eyes  —  and,  crowding  round,  yet 

wilder  eyes  — 
And  gaping,  languid  lips  ; 
And  everywhere  that  men  could  see, 
About  the  black,  black  ships, 
Was  nothing  but  the  deep-red  sea  ; 
The  deep-red  shore  ; 
The  deep-red  skies  ; 
The  deep-red  silence,  thick  with  thirsty 

sighs  ; 
And  daylight,  dying  slowly.     Nothing 

more. 

The  tall  masts  stood  upright ; 
And   not   a  sail   above   the    burnished 

prores  ; 
The  languid   sea,   like   one  outwearied 

quite, 

Shrank,  dying  inward  into  hollow  shores, 
And    breathless  harbors,   under  sandy 

bars ; 

And,  one  by  one,  down  tracts  of  quiv- 
ering blue, 

The  singed  and  sultry  stars 
Looked   from   the   inmost  heaven,  far, 

faint,  and  few, 
While,  all  below,  the  sick  and  steaming 

brine 
The  spilled-out  sunset  did  incarnadine. 

At  last  one  broke  the  silence ;  and  a  word 
Was   lisped    and    buzzed   about,    from 
mouth  to  mouth  ; 


Pale  faces  grew  more  pale  ;  wild  whis- 
pers stirred  ; 
Ami  men,  with  moody,  murmuring  lips, 

conferred 
In  ominous  tones,  from  shaggy  beards 

uncouth  : 
As  though  some  wind  had  broken  from 

the  blurred 
And   blazing   prison    of    the    stagnant 

drouth, 
And  stirred  the  salt  sea  in  the  stifled 

south. 
The  long-robed    priests    stood    round  ; 

and,  in  the  gloom, 
Under  black   brows,    their  bright   and 

greedy  eyes 
Shone  deathfully  ;  there  was  a  sound  of 

sighs, 
Thick-sobbed    from     choking     throats 

among  the  crowd, 
That,  whispering,  gathered  close,  with 

dark  heads  bowed  ; 
But  no  man  lifted  up  his  voice  aloud, 
For   heavy  hung  o  er  all  the  helpless 

sense  of  doom. 

Then,  after  solemn  prayer, 
The  father  bade  the  attendants,  tenderly 
Lift  her  upon  the  lurid  altar-stone. 
There  was  no  hope  in  any  face  ;  each  eye 
Swam   tearful,   that   her  own  did  gaze 

upon. 
They   bound  her  helpless  hands  with 

mournful  care ; 
And  looped  up  her  long  hair, 
That   hung  about  her,  like  an  amber 

shower, 
Mixed  with  the  saffron  robe,  and  falling 

lower, 
Down   from   her  bare  and  cold  white 

shoulder  flung. 
Upon  the  heaving  breast  the  pale  cheek 

hung, 
Suffused  with  that  wild  light  that  rolled 

among 
The  pausing  crowd,  out  of  the  crimson 

drouth. 
They  held  hot  hands  upon  her  pleading 

mouth  ; 

And  stifled  on  faint  lips  the  natural  cry. 
Back  from  the  altar-stone, 
Slow-moving  in  his  fixed  place 
A  little  space, 
The  speechless  father  turned.     No  word 

was  said. 
He  wrapped  his  mantle  close  about  his* 

face, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


321 


In  his  dumb  grief,  without  a  moan. 
The  lopping  axe  was  lifted  overhead. 
Then,  suddenly, 
There  sounded  a  strange  motion  of  the 

sea, 
Booming  far    inland ;    and    above   the 

east 

A  ragged  cloud  rose  slowly,  and  increased. 
Not  one  line  in  the  horoscope  of  Time 
Is  perfect.     0,  what  falling  off  is  this, 
When  some  grand  soul,   that  else  had 

been  sublime, 
Falls  unawares  amiss, 
And  stoops  its  crested  strength  to  sudden 

crime  ! 

So  gracious  a  thing  is  it,  and  sweet, 

In  life's  clear  centre  one  true  man  to  see, 

That  holds  strong  nature  in  a  wise  con- 
trol ; 

Throbbing  out,  all  round,  the  heat 

Of  a  large  and  liberal  soul. 

No  shadow,  simulating  life, 

But  pulses  warm  with  human  nature, 

In  a  soul  of  godlike  stature  ; 

Heart  and  brain,  all  rich  and  rife 

With  noble  instincts  ;  strong  to  meet 

Time  calmly,  in  his  purposed  place. 

Sound  through  and  through,  and  all 
complete  ; 

Exalting  what  is  low  and  base  ; 

Enlarging  what  is  narrow  and  small  ; 

He  stamps  his  character  on  all, 

And  with  his  grand  identity 

Fills  up  Creation's  eye. 

He  will  not  dream  the  aimless  years  away 

In  blank  delay, 

But  makes  eternity  of  to-day, 

And  reaps  the  full-eared  time.     For  him 

Nature  her  affluent  horn  doth  brim, 

To  strew  with  fruit  and  flowers  his  way — 

Fruits  ripe  and  flowers  gay. 

The  clear  soul  in  his  earnest  eyes 
Looks  through  and  through  all  plaited 

lies, 

Time  shall  not  rob  him  of  his  youth, 
Nor  narrow  his  large  sympathies. 
He  is  not  true,  he  is  a  truth, 
And  such  a  truth  as  never  dies. 
Who  knows  his  nature,  feels  his  right, 
And,  toiling,  toils  for  his  delight  ; 
Not  as  slaves  toil  :  where'er  he  goes, 
The  desert  blossoms  with  the  rose. 
He  trusts  himself  in  scorn  of  doubt, 
And  lets  orbed  purpose  widen  out. 
The  world  works  with  him  ;  all  men  see 
21 


Some  part  of  them  fulfilled  in  him  ; 
His  memory  never  shall  grow  dim  ; 
He  holds  the  heaven  and  earth  in  fee, 
Not  following  that,  fulfilling  this, 
He  is  immortal,  for  he  is  ! 

0  weep  !  weep  I  weep  ! 

Weep  for  the  young  that  die  ; 

As  it  were  pale  flowers  that  wither  under 

The  smiting  sun,  and  fall  asunder, 

Before  the  dews  on  the  grass  are  dry, 

Or  the  tender  twilight  is  out  of  the  sky, 

Or  the  lilies  have  fallen  asleep  ; 

Or  ships  by  a  wanton  wind  cut  short 

Are  wrecked  in  sight  of  the  placid  port 

Sinking  strangely,  and  suddenly  — 

Sadly,  and  strangely,  and  suddenly  - 

Into  the  black  Plutonian  deep. 

0  weep  !  weep  !  weep  ! 

Weep,  and  bow  the  head, 

For  those  whose  sun  is  set  at  noon  ; 

Whose  night  is  dark,  without  a  moon  ; 

Whose  aim  of  life  is  sped 

Beyond  pursuing  woes, 

And  the  arrow  of  angry  foes, 

To  the  darkness  that  no  man  knows  — 

The  darkness  among  the  dead. 

Let  us  mourn,  and  bow  the  head, 

And  lift  up  the  voice,  and  weep 

For  the  early  dead  ! 

For  the  early  dead  we  may  bow  the  head. 

And  strike  the  breast,  and  weep  ; 

But,  0,  what  shall  be  said 

For  the  living  sorrow  ? 

For  the  living  sorrow  our  grief  — 

Dumb  grief — draws  no  relief 

From  tears,  nor  yet  may  borrow 

Solace  from  sound  or  speech  ;  — 

For  the  living  sorrow 

That  heaps  to-morrow  upon  to-morrow 

In  piled-up  pain,  beyond  Hope's  reach  ! 

It  is  well  that  we  mourn  for  the  early 

dead, 

Strike  the  breast,  and  bow  the  head  ; 
For  the  sorrow  for  these  may  be  sung, 

or  said, 
And  the  chaplets  be  woven  for  the  fallen 

head, 
And  the  urns  to  the  stately  tombs  be 

led, 
And   Love  from  their  memory  may  b« 

fed, 

And  song  may  ennoble  the  anguish  ; 
But,  0,  for  the  living  sorrow ,  — 
For  the  living  sorrow  what  hopes  remain '! 
For  the  prisoned,  pining,  passionate  pain, 
That  is  doomed  forever  to  languish, 


322 


CLYTEMNESTKA. 


And  to  languish  forever  in  vain, 
For  the  want  of  the  words  that  may  be- 
stead 

The  hunger  that  out  of  loss  is  bred. 
0  friends,  for  the  living  sorrow  — 
For  the  living  sorrow  — 
For  the  living  sorrow  what  shall  be  said  ? 


XI.  A  PHOCIAN.  CHORUS.  SEMI- 
CHORUS. 


0  noble  strangers,  if  indeed  you  be 
Such  as  you  seem,  of  Argos,  and  the  land 
That  the  unconqucr'd  Agamemnon  rules, 
Tell  me  is  this  the  palace,  these  the  roofs 
Of  the  Atridse,  famed  in  ancient  song? 

CHORUS. 

Not  without  truth  you  name  the  neigh- 
borhood, 

Standing  before  the  threshold,  and  the 
doors 

Of  Pelops,  and  upon  the  Argive  soil. 

That  which  you  see  above  the  Agora 

Is  the  old  fane  of  the  Lycsean  God, 

And  this  the  house  of  Agamemnon's 
queen. 

But  whence  art  thou  ?  For  if  thy  dusty 
locks, 

And  those  soiled  sandals  show  with 
aught  of  truth, 

Thou  shouldst  be  come  from  far. 

PHOCIAN. 

And  am  so,  friends, 

But,  by  Heaven's  favor,  here  my  jour- 
ney ends. 

CHORUS. 

Whence,  then,  thy  way  ? 

PHOCIAN. 

From  Phocis  ;  charged  with  gifts 
For  Agamemnon,  and  with  messages 
From  Strophius,  and  the  sister  of  your 

king. 
Our  watchmen  saw  the  beacon  on  the 

hills, 
And  leaped  for  joy.     Say,  is  the  king 

yet  come  ? 

CHORUS. 

He  conies  this  way ;  stand  by,  I  hear 
them  shout ; 


Here  shall  you  meet  him,  as  he  mounts 
the  hill. 

PHOCIAN. 

Now  blest  be  all  the  Gods,  from  Father 

Zeus, 

Who  reigns  o'er  windy  (Eta,  far  away, 
To  King  Apollo,  with  the  golden  horns. 

CHORUS. 
Look  how  they  cling  about  him  !     Far 

and  near 

The  town  breaks  loose,  and  follows  after, 
Crowding  up  the  ringing  ways. 
The  boy  forgets  to  watch  the  steer  ; 
The  grazing  steer  forgets  to  graze  ; 
The  shepherd  leaves  the  herd  ; 
The  priest  will  leave  the  fane  ; 
The  deep  heart  of  the  land  is  stirred 
To  sunny  tears,  and  tearful  laughter, 
To  look  into  his  face  again. 

Burst,  burst  the  brazen  gates  ! 
Throw  open  the  hearths,  and  follow  ! 
Let  the  shouts  of  the  youths  go  up  to 

Apollo, 

Lord  of  the  graceful  quiver  : 
Till  the  tingling  sky  dilates  — 
Dilates,  and  palpitates  ; 
And,  Paean  !  Paean  !  the  virgins  sing  ; 
Paean  1  Paean  !  the  king  !  the  king  ! 
Laden  with  spoils  from  Phrygia  ! 
lo  !  lo  !  lo  !  they  sing 
Till  the  pillars  of  Olympus  ring  : 
lo !  to  Queen  Ortygia, 
Whose  double  torch  shall  burn  forever  ! 
But  thou,  0  Lord  of  the  graceful  quiver. 
Bid,  bid  thy  Pythian  splendor  halt, 
Where'er  he  beams,  surpassing  sight ; 
Or  on  some  ocean  isthmus  bent, 
Or  wheeled  from  the  dark  continent, 
Half-way  down  Heaven's  rosy  vault, 
Toward  the  dewy  cone  of  night. 
Let  not  the  breathless  air  grow  dim, 
Until  the  whole  land  look  at  him  ! 


Stand  back  ! 


SEMI-CHORUS. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

Will  he  come  this  way  ? 


SEMI-CHORUS. 
SEMI-CHORUS, 

Gods,  what  a  crowd  ! 


No;  byng. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


323 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

How  firm  the  old  men  walk  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
There  goes  the  king.     I  know  him  by 
his  beard. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

And  I,  too,  by  the  manner  of  his  gait. 
That  Godlike  spirit  lifts  him  from  the 
earth. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

How  gray  he  looks  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

His  cheek  is  seamed  with  scars. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  bull's  front  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

He  stands  up  like  a  tower. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ay,  like  some  moving  tower  of  armed 

men, 
That  carries  conquest  under  city  -walls. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
He  lifts  his   sublime  head,  and  in  his 

port 
Bears  eminent  authority. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Behold, 
His  spear  shows  like   the  spindle  of  a 

Fate! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0,  what  an  arm  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Most  fit  for  such  a  sword  ; 
Look  at  that  sword. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
What  shoulders  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  throat  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  are  these  bearing  ? 


SEMI-CHORUS. 
Urns. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 


Alas  !  alas  ! 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

0  friends,  look  here  !  how  are  the  mighty 

men 

Shrunk  up  into  a  little  vase  of  earth, 
A  child  might  lift.     Sheathed  each  in 

brazen  plates, 
They  went  so  heavy,  they  come  back  so 

light, 
Sheathed,  each  one,  in  the  brazen  urn  of 

death  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

With  what  a  stateliness  he  moves  along  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

See,  how  they  touch  his  skirt,  and  grasp 
his  hand  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Is  that  the  queen  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Ay,  how  she  matches  him  ! 
With  what  grand  eyes  she  looks  up,  full 
in  his  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Say,  what  are  these  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0  Phrygians  !  how  they  walk  ! 
The  only  sad  men  in  the  crowd,  I  think. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
But  who  is  this,  that  with  such  scornful 

brows, 
And  looks  averted,    walks  among  the 

rest? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

1  know  not,  but  some  Phrygian  woman, 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

Her  heavy-fallen  hair  down  her  white 

neck 

(A  dying  sunbeam  tangled  in  each  tress) 
All  its  neglected  beauty  pours  one  way, 


324 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

Her  looka  bend  ever  on  the  alien  ground, 
As  though  the  stones  of  Troy  were  in 

her  path. 

And  in  the  pained  paleness  of  her  brow 
Sorrow  hath  made  a  regal  tenement. 

8EMI-CHOIUS. 

Here  conies  Electra  ;  young  Orestes,  too  ; 
See  how  he  emulates  his  father's  stride  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  at  jEgisthus,  where  he  walks  apart, 
And  bites  his  lip. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

I  oft  have  seen  him  so 
When  something  chafes  him  in  his  bitter 
moods. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Peace,  here  they  come  ! 


CHORUS. 
lo !  lo  ! 


The  King  ! 


XII.  AGAMEMNON,  CLYTEMNES- 
TRA, ^EGISTHUS,  ELECTRA, 
ORESTES,  CASSANDRA,  aPhodan, 
Chorus,  Semi-Chorus,  and  others  in  the 
procession. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

O  blazing  sun,  that  in  thy  skyey  tower 
Pausest  to  see  one  kingly  as  thyself, 
Lend  all  thy  brightest  beams  to  light  his 

head, 
And  gild  our  gladness  !     Friends,  behold 

the  King  ! 

NOT  hath  ^Etolian  Jove,  the  arbiter 
Of  conquests,  well  disposed  the  issues 

here  ; 
For  every  night  that  brought  not  news 

from  Troy 
Heaped  fear  on  fear,  as  waves  succeed  to 

waves, 
When  Northern  blasts  blow  white  the 

Cretan  main,  — 
Knowing  that  thou,  far  off,  from  toil  to 

toil 

Climbedst,  uncertain.     Unto  such  an  one 
His  children,  and  young  offspring  of  the 

house 
Are  as  a  field,  which  he,  the  husbandman, 


Owning  far  off,  does  only  look  upon 
At  seedtime  once,  nor  then  till  harvest 

comes  ; 
And  his  sad  wife  must  wet  with  nightly 

tears 

Unsolaced  pillows,  fearing  for  his  fate. 
To  these  how  welcome,  then,  his  glad 

return, 
When  he,  as  thou,  comes  heavy  with  the 

weight 
Of  great  achievements,  and  the  spoils  of 

time. 

AGAMEMNON. 
Enough  !  enough  !  we  weigh  you  at  full 

worth, 
And  hold  you  dear,  whose  gladness  equals 

yours ; 

But  women  ever  err  by  over-talk. 
Silence  to  women,  as  the  beard  to  men, 
Brings  honor ;  and  plain  truth  is  hurt, 

not  helped 
By  many  words.     To  each  his  separate 

sphere 
The  Gods  allot.     To  me  the  sounding 

camp, 
Steeds,  and  the  oaken  spear  ;  to  you  the 

hearth, 
Children,  and  household  duties  of  the 

loom. 

'T  is  man's  to  win  an  honorable  name  ; 
Woman's  to  keep  it  honorable  still. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

(0  beast !  0  weakness  of  this  woman- 
hood ! 

To  let  these  pompous  male  things  strut 
in  our  eyes, 

And  in  their  lordship  lap  themselves  se- 
cure, 

Because  the  lots  in  life  are  fallen  to  them. 

Am  I  less  heart  and  head,  less  blood  and 
brain, 

Less  force  and  feeling,  pulse  and  passion 

Than    this    self- worshipper  —  a  lie   all 

through  ?) 

Forgive  if  joy  too  long  unloose  our  lips, 
Silent  so  long :  your  words  fall  on  my 

soul 
As  rain  on  thirsty  lands,  that  feeds  the 

dearth 
With  blessed  nourishment.    My  whole 

heart  hears. 
You  speaking  thus,  I  would  be  silent 

ever. 


CLYTEMNESTBA. 


325 


AGAMEMNON. 

Who  is  this  man  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

A  Phocian,  by  his  look. 

PHOCIAN. 
0  King,  from  Strophius,  and  your  sister's 

court, 
Despatched  with  this  sealed  tablet,  and 

with  gifts, 
Though  both  express,  so  says  my  royal 

Head, 

But  poorly  the  rich  welcome  they  intend. 
Will  you  see  this  ?  —  and  these  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

Anon  !  anon  ! 
We  '11  look  at  them  within.     0  child, 

thine  eyes 
Look  wanner  welcome  than  all  words 

express. 
Thou  art  mine  own  child  by  that  royal 

brow. 
Nature  hath  marked  thee  mine. 


0  Father  ! 


AGAMEMNON. 


Come  ! 

And  our  Orestes  !     He  is  nobly  grown  ; 
He  shall  do  great  deeds  when  our  own 

are  dim. 
So  shall  men  come  to  say  "  the  father's 

sword 
In  the  son's  hands  hath  hewn  out  nobler 

fame." 
Think  of  it,   little  one  !   wh^re  is  our 

cousin  ? 

JEGISTHUS. 

Here  !    And  the  keys  of  the  Acropolis  ? 

AGAMEMNON. 

0  well  !  this  dust  and  heat  are  over- 
much. 

And,  cousin,  you  look  pale.  Anon ! 
anon  ! 

Speak  to  us  by  and  by.  Let  business 
wait. 

Is  our  house  ordered  ?  we  will  take  the 
bath. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Will  you  within  ?  where  all  is  ordered  fair 
Befitting  state  :  copl  chambers,  marble- 
floored 


Or  piled  with  blazing  carpets,  scented 

rare 

With  the  sweet  spirit  of  each  odorous  gum 
In  dim,  delicious,  amorous  mists  about 
The  purple-paven,  silver-s"ided  bath, 
Deep,  flashing,  pure. 

AGAMEMNON. 

Look  to  our  captives  then. 
I  charge  you  chiefly  with  this  woman 

here, 

Cassandra,  the  mad  prophetess  of  Troy. 
See  that  you  chafe  her  not  in  her  wild 

moods. 


XIII. 


CLYTEMNESTRA.    JIGIS- 
THUS. 


Linger  not ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
.EGISTHUS. 

What  ?  you  will  to-day  — 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


^GISTHUS. 


-  This  hour. 


0,  if  some  chance  mar  all ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  '11  make  chance  sure. 

Doubt  is  the  doomsman  of  self-judged 
disgrace  : 

But  every  chance  brings  safety  to  self- 
help. 

^EGISTHUS. 
Ay,  but  the  means  —  the  time  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

—  Fulfil  themselves. 
0  most  irresolute  heart !  is  this  a  time 
When  through  the  awful  pause  of  life, 

distinct, 
The  sounding  shears  of  Fate  slope  near, 

to  stand 
Meek,  like  tame  wethers,  and  be  shorn  ? 

How  say  you, 
The  blithe  wind  up,  and  the  broad  sea 

before  him, 
Who  would  crouch  all  day  long  beside 

the  mast 

Counting  the  surges  beat  his  idle  helm, 
Because  between  him  and  the  golden  isles 


326 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


The  shadow  of  a  passing  storm  might 

hang  ? 
Danger,  being  pregnant,  doth  beget  re- 

solve. 

JEGISTHVS. 

Thou  wert  not  born  to  fail.     Give  me 
thy  hand. 


Take  it. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
.SGISTHU8. 

It  does  not  tremble. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0  be  strong ! 

The  future  hangs  upon  the  die  we  cast : 
Fortune  plays  high  for  us  — 

JEGISTHUS. 

Gods  grant  she  win. 


XIV.       CHORUS.      SEMI-CHORUS. 
CASSANDRA. 

CHORUS. 

0  thou  that  dost  with  globed  glory 
Sweep  the  dark  world  at  noon  of  night, 
Or  among   snowy   summits,    wild    and 

hoary. 

Or  through  the  mighty  silences 
Of  immemorial  seas, 
With  all  the  stars  behind  thee  flying 

white, 

0  take  with  thee,  where'er 
Thou  wanderest,  ancient  Care, 
And  hide  her  in  some  interlunar  haunt  ; 
Where  but  the  wild  bird's  chaunt 
At  night,  through  rocky  ridges  gaunt, 
Or  meanings  of  some  homeless  sea  may 

find  her 

There,  Goddess,  bar,  and  bind  her  ; 
Where  she  may  pine,  but  wander  not ; 
Loathe  her  haunts,  but  leave  them  not ; 
Wail  and  rave  to  the  wind  and  wave 
That  hear,  yet  understand  her  not ; 
And  curse  her  chains,  yet  cleave  them 

not ; 

And  hate  her  lot,  yet  help  it  not. 
Or  let  her  rove  with  Gods  undone 
Who  dwell  below  the  setting  sun, 
And  the  sad  western  hours 
That  bum  in  fiery  bowers  ; 
<>r  in  Ampliitrite's  grot 
Where  the  vexed  tides  unite, 
And  the  spent  wind,  howling,  breaks 


O'er  sullen  oceans  out  of  sight 

Among  sea-snakes,  that  the  white  moon 
wakes 

Till  they  shake  themselves  into  diamond 
flakes, 

Coil  and  twine  in  the  glittering  brine 

And  swing  themselves  in  the  long  moon- 
shine ; 

Or  by  wild  shores  hoarsely  rage, 

And  moan,  and  vent  her  spite, 

In  some  inhospitable  harborage 

Of  Thracian  waters,  white. 

There  let  her  grieve,  and  grieve,  and 
hold  her  breath 

Until  she  hate  herself  to  death. 

I  seem  with  rapture  lifted  higher, 

Like  one  in  mystic  trance. 

0  Pan  !  Pan  !  Pan  ! 

First  friend  of  man, 

And  founder  of  Heaven's  choir, 

Come  thou  from  old  Cyllene,  and  inspire 

The  Gnossian,  and  Nyssean  dance  ! 

Come  thou,  too,  Delian  king, 

From  the  blue  JEgean  sea, 

And  Mycone's  yellow  coast : 

Give  my  spirit  such  a  wing 

As  there  the  foolish  Icarus  lost, 

That  she  may  soar  above  the  cope 

Of  this  high  pinnacle  of  gladness, 

And  dizzy  height  of  hope  ; 

And  there,  beyond  all  reach  of  sadness, 

M;i  v  tune  my  lips  to  sing 

Great  Pseaus,  full  and  free, 

Till  the  whole  world  ring 

With  such  heart-melting  madness 

As  bards  are  taught  by  thee  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  to  the  sad  Cassandra,  how  she 
stands ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  turns  not  from  the  wringing  of  her 
hands. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  is  she  doing  ? 

SF.MI-CHORU8. 

Look,  her  lips  are  moved. 

SEMI-CHORC8. 

And  yet  their  motion  shapes  not  any 
sound. 


Speak  to  her. 


SEMI-CHORUS, 


CLYTEMXESTRA. 


327 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  will  heed  not. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

But  yet  speak. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy  woman,  cease  a  little  while 

From  mourning.  Recognize  the  work 
of  Heaven. 

Troy  smoulders.  Think  not  of  it.  Let 
the  past 

Be  buried  in  the  past.  Tears  mend  it 
not. 

Fate  may  be  kindlier,  yet,  than  she  ap- 
pears. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
She  does  not  answer. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Call  to  her  again. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0  break  this  scornful  silence  !     Hear  us 

speak. 
We  would  console  you. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Look,  how  she  is  moved  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0  speak  !  the  heart's  hurt  oft  is  helped 
by  words. 

CASSANDRA. 

0  Itys  !  Itys  !  Itys  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  a  shriek  ! 

She  takes  the  language  of  the  nightingale, 
Unhappy  bird  !   that  mourns  her  per- 
ished form, 

And  leans  her  breast  against  a  thorn,  all 
night. 

CASSANDRA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  shambles. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Listen,  friends  ! 
She  mutters  something  to  herself. 


CASSANDRA. 


Did  any  name  Apollo  ?  woe  is  me  ! 


Alas! 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  calls  upon  the  God. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Unhappy  one, 

What  sorrow  strikes  thee  with  bewilder- 
ment ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Now  she  is  mute  again. 


A  Stygian  cold 
Creeps  through  my  limbs,  and  loosens 

every  joint. 

The  hot  blood  freezes  in  its  arteries, 
And  stagnates  round  the  region  of  the 

heart. 

A  cloud  comes  up  from  sooty  Acheron, 
And  clothes  mine  eyelids 
With  infernal  night. 
My  hair  stands  up. 
What  supernatural  awe 
Shoots,  shrivelling  through  me, 
To  the  marrow  and  bone  ? 
0  dread  and  wise  Prophetic  Powers, 
Whose  strong-compelling  law 
Doth  hold  in  awe 
The  laboring  hours, 
Your  intervention  I  invoke, 
My  soul  from  this  wild  doubt  to  save  ; 
Whether  you  have 
Your  dwelling  in  some  dark-  oracular 

cave, 

Or  solemn,  sacred  oak  ; 
Or  in  Dodona's  ancient,  honored  beech, 
Whose  mystic  boughs  above 
Sat  the  wise  dove  ; 
Or  if  the  tuneful  voice  of  old 
Awake  in  Delos,  to  unfold 
Dark  wisdom  in  ambiguous  speech* 
Upon  the  verge  of  strange  despair 
My  heart  grows  dizzy.     Now  I  seem 
Like    one    that   dreams   some   ghastly 

dream, 

And  cannot  cast  away  his  care, 
But  harrows  all  the  haggard  air 
With    his    hard    breath.      Above,    be- 
neath, 

The  empty  silence  seems  to  teem 
With  apprehension.     0  declare 
What  hidden  thing  doth  Fate  prepare, 
What  hidden,  horrible  thing  doth  Fate 

prepare  ? 
For  of  some  hidden  grief  my  heart  seems 

half  aware. 


328 


CLYTEMNESTKA. 


XV.     CLYTEMNESTRA.     CASSAN- 
DRA.    CHORUS. 

«  I.VTEMNESTRA. 

One  blow  makes  all  sure.    Ay,  but  then, 

—  beyond  ? 

I  cannot  trammel  up  the  future  thus, 
And  so  forecast  the  time,  as  with  one 

blow 
To  break  the  hundred  Hydra-heads  of 

Chance. 
Beyond  —  beyond  I  dare  not  look,  for 

who, 
If  first  he  scanned  the  space,  would  leap 

the  gulf? 
One  blow  secures  the  moment.     0,  but 

he.  .  . 
Ay,  there  it  lies  !     I  dread  lest  my  love, 

being 
So  much  the  stronger,  scare  his  own  to 

death  ; 

As  what  they  comprehend  not,  men  ab- 
hor. 

He  has  a  wavering  nature,  easily 
Unpoised  ;   and  trembling  ever  on  ex- 
tremes. 
O,  what   if  terror  outweigh   love,   and 

love, 
Having  defiled   his   countenance,    take 

part 
Against   himself,  self-loathed,   a  fallen 

God? 

Ah,  his  was  never  yet  the  loving  soul, 
But  rather  that  which  lets  itself  be  loved  ; 
As  some  loose  lily  leans  upon  a  lake, 
Letting  the  lymph  reflect  it,  as  it  will, 
Still   idly  swayed,   whichever  way  the 

stream 

Stirs  the  green  tangles  of  the  water  moss. 
The  flower  of  his  love  never  bloomed 

upright, 

But  a  sweet  parasite,  that  loved  to  lean 
On  stronger  natures,  winning  strength 

from  them,  — 

Not  such  a  flower  as  whose  delirious  cup 
Maddens  the  bee,  and  never  can  give 

forth 

Enough  of  fragrance,  yet  is  ever  sweet. 
Yet  which  is  sweetest,  —  to  receive  or 

give? 
Sweet  to  receive,  and  sweet  to  give,  in 

love  ! 

When  one  is  never  sated  that  receives, 
Nor  ever  all  exhausted  one  that  gives. 
I  think  I  love  him  more,  that  I  resem- 
ble 
So  little  aught  thnt  pleases  me  in  him, 


Perchance,  if  I  dared  question  this  dark 
heart, 

'T  is  not  for  him,  but  for  myself  in  him, 

For  that  which  is  my  softer  self  in  him, — 

I  have  done  this,  and  this,  —  and  shall 
do  more  : 

Hoped,  wept,  dared  wildly,  and  will 
overcome  ! 

Does  he  not  need  me  ?  It  is  sweet  to 
think 

That  I  am  all  to  him,  whate'er  I  be 

To  others  ;  and  to  one,  — little,  I  know  ! 

But  to  him,  all  things,  —  sceptre,  sword, 
and  crown. 

For  who  would  live,  but  to  be  loved  l>y 
some  one  ? 

Be  fair,  but  to  give  beauty  to  another  ? 

Or  wise,  but  to  instruct  some  sweet  de- 
sire ? 

Or  strong,  but  that  thereby  love  may  re- 
joice ? 

Or  who  for  crime's  sake  would  be  crimi- 
nal ? 

And  yet  for  love's  sake  would  not  dare 
wild  deeds  ? 

A  mutual  necessity,  one  fear, 

One  hope,  and  the  strange  posture  of  the 
time 

Unite  us  now  ;  —  but  this  need  over- 
past, 

0,  if,  'twixt  his  embrace  and  mine, 
there  rise 

The  reflex  of  a  murdered  head  !  and  he, 

Remembering  the  crime,  remember  not 

It  was  for  him  that  I  am  criminal, 

But  rather  hate  me  for  the  part  he 
took  — 

Against  his  soul,  as  he  will  say  —  in 
this  ?  — 

I  will  not  think  it.  Upon  this  wild 
venture, 

Freighted  with  love's  last  wealthiest 
merchandise, 

My  heart  sets  forth.  To-morrow  I  shall 
wake 

A  beggar,  as  it  may  be,  or  thrice  rich. 

As  one  who  plucks  his  last  gem  from  his 
crown 

(Some  pearl  for  which,  in  youth,  he  bar- 
tered states) 

And,  sacrificing  with  an  anxious  heart, 

Toward  night  puts  seaward  in  a  little 
bark 

For  lands  reported  far  beyond  the  sun, 

Trusting  to  win  back  kingdoms,  or  there 
drown  — 

So  I  —  and  with  like  perilous  endeavor  ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


329 


O,  but  I  think  I  could  implore  the  Gods 

More  fervently  than  ever,  in  my  youth, 

I  prayed  that  help  of  Heaven  I  needed 
not, 

And  lifted  innocent  hands  to  their  great 
sky. 

So  much  to  lose  ...  so  much  to  gain 
...  so  much  .  .  . 

I  dare  not  think  how  .  .  . 

Ha,  the  Phrygian  slave  ! 

He  dares  to  bring  his  mistress  to  the 
hearth  ! 

She  looks  unhappy.     I  will  speak  to  her. 

Perchance  her  hatred  may  approve  my 
own, 

And  help  me  in  the  work  1  am  about. 

'T  were  well  to  sound  her. 

Be  not  so  cast  down, 

Unhappy    stranger !     Fear    no   jealous 
hand. 

In  sorrow  I,  too,  am  not  all  untried. 

Our  fortunes  are  not  so  dissimilar, 

Slaves  both  —  and  of  one  master. 

Nay,  approach. 

Is  my  voice  harsh  in  its  appeal  to  thee  ? 

If  so,  believe  me,  it  belies  my  heart. 

A  woman  speaks  to  thee. 

What,  silent  still  ? 

0,  look  not  on  me  with  such  sullen  eyes, 

There  is  no  accusation  in  my  own. 

Rather  on  him  that  brought  thee,  than 
on  thee, 

Our  scorn  is  settled.     I  would  help  thee. 
Come  ! 

Mute  still  ? 

I  know  that  shame  is  ever  dumb, 

And  ever  weak  ;    but    here  is  no  re- 
proach. 

Listen  !     Thy  fate  is  given  to  thy  hands. 

Art  thou  a  woman,  and  dost  scorn  con- 
tempt ? 

Art  thou   a   captive,    and    dost  loathe 
these  bonds  ? 

Art  thou  courageous,  as  men  call  thy 
race  ? 

Or,  helpless  art  thou,  and  wouldst  over- 
come ? 

If   so,  —  look  up  !    For  there  is  hope 
for  thee. 

Give  me  thy  hand  — 

CASSANDRA. 
Pah  !  there  is  blood  on  it  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

What  is  she  raving  of  ? 


CASSANDRA. 

The  place,  from  old, 
Is  evil. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Ay,  there  is  a  sickness,  here, 
That  needs  the  knife. 

CASSANDRA. 

0,  horrible  !  blood  !  blood  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

I  see  you  are  a  Phrygian  to  the  bone  i 
Coward  and  slave  !  be  so  forevermore  ! 

CASSANDRA. 

Apollo  !  0  Apollo  !     0  blood  !  blood  ! 
The  whole  place   swims  with  it  !     Tha 

slippery  steps 
Steam  with  the  fumes  !    The  rank  air 

smells  of  blood  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Heed  her  not !  for  she  knows  not  what 

she  says. 

This  is  some  falling  sickness  of  the  soul. 
Her  fever  frights  itself. 

CASSANDRA. 

It  reeks  !  it  reeks  ! 

It   smokes  !    it   stifles  !    blood  !    blood, 
everywhere  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

See,  he  hath  brought  this  mad  woman 

from  Troy, 

To  shame  our  honor,  and  insult  our  care. 
Look  to  her,  friends,  my  hands  have 

other  work  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas,  the  House  of  Tantalus  is  doomed  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

The  King  sleeps  —  like  an  infant.     His 

huge  strength 

Holds  slum  ber  thrice  as  close  as  other  men . 
How  well  he  sleeps  !     Make  garlands  for 

the  Gods. 
I  go  to  watch  the  couch.     Cull  every 

flower, 

And  honor  all  the  tutelary  fanes 
With  sacrifice  as  ample  as  our  joy, 
Lest  some  one  say  we  reverence  not  the 

Gods! 


330 


CLYTEMNKSTRA. 


mouus. 

0  doomed  House  and  race ! 
0  toilsome,  toilsome  horsemanship 
Of  Pelops  ;  that  ill  omen  brought  to  us  ! 
For  since  the  drown, -.1  Myrtilus 
Did  from  his  golden  chariot  slip 
To  his  last  sleep,  below  the  deep, 
Nothing  of  sad  calamitous  disgrace 
Ilatli  angry  Heaven  ceased  to  neap 
On  this  unhappy  House  of  Tantalus. 
Not  only  upon  sacred  leaves  of  old, 
Preserved   in    many  a  guarded,    mystic 

fold, 

But  sometimes,  too,  enrolled 
On  tablets  fair 
Of   stone    or    brass,    with  quaint   and 

curious  care, 
In  characters  of  gold, 
And  many  an  iron-bound,  melancholy 

book, 

The  wisdom  of  the  wise  is  writ ; 
And  hardly  shall  a  man, 
For' all  he  can, 
By  painful,  slow  degrees, 
And  nightly  reveries, 
Of  long,  laborious  thought,  grow  learned 

in  these. 
But  who,   that  reads  a  woman's  wily 

look, 
Shall  say  what  evil  hides,  and  lurks  in 

it? 

Or  fathom  her  false  wit  ? 
For  by  a  woman  fell  the  man 
Who  did  Nemaea's  pest  destroy, 
And  the  brinded  Hydra  slew, 
And  many  other  wonders  wrought. 
By  a  woman,  fated  Troy 
Was  overset,  and  fell  to  naught, 
lioyal  Amphiaraus,  too, 
All  his  wisdom  could  not  free 
From  his  false  Eriphyle, 
Whom  a  golden  necklace  bought,  — 
So  has  it  been,  and  so  shall  be, 
Ever  since  the  world  began  ! 

0  woman,  woman,  of  what  other  earth 
Hath  daedal  Nature  moulded  thee  ? 
Thou  art  not  of  our  clay  compact, 
Not  of  our  common  clay  ;  — 
But  when   the   painful  world  in  labor 

lay  — 

Labor  long  —  and  agony, 
In  her  heaving  throes  distract, 
And  vext  with  angry  Heaven's  red  ire, 
Nature,  kneading  snow  and  fire, 
In  thy  mystie  being  pent 
Each  contrary  element, 


Life  and  death  within  thee  blent : 
All  despair  and  all  desire  : 
There  to  mingle  and  ferment. 
While,  mad  midwives,  at  thy  birth, 
Furies  inixt  with  Sirens  l>ent, 
Inter-wreathing  snakes  and  smiles,  -. 
Fairest  dreams  and  falsest  guiles. 

Such  a  splendid  mischief  thou  ! 
With  thy  light  of  languid  eyes  ; 
And  thy  bosom  of  pure  snow  : 
And  thine  heart  of  fire  below, 
Whose  red  light  doth  come  and  go 
Ever  o'er  thy  changeful  cheek 
When  love-whispers  tremble  weak  ; 
Thy  warm  lips  and  pensive  sighs, 
That  the  breathless  spirit  bow  : 
And  the  heavenward  life  that  lies 
In  the  still  serenities 
Of  thy  snowy,  airy  brow,  — 
Thine  ethereal  airy  brow. 
Such  a  splendid  mischief,  thou  ! 
What  are  all  thy  witcheries  ? 
All  thine  evil  beauty  ?    All 
Thy  soft  looks,  and  subtle  smiles  ? 
Tangled  tresses  ?     Mad  caresses  ? 
Tendernesses  ?    Tears  and  kisses  ? 
And  the  long  look,  between  whiles, 
That  the  helpless  heart  beguiles, 
Tranced  in  such  a  subtle  thrall  ? 
What  are  all  thy  sighs  and  smiles  ? 
Fairest  dreams  and  falsest  guiles  ! 
Hoofs  to  horses,  teeth  to  lions, 
Horns  to  bulls,  and  speed  to  hares, 
To  the  fish  to  glide  through  waters, 
To  the  bird  to  glide  through  airs, 
Nature  gave  :  to  men  gave  courage, 
And  the  use  of  brazen  spears. 
What  was  left  to  give  to  woman, 
All  her  gifts  thus  given  ?    Ah,  tears, 
Smiles,  and  kisses,  whispers,  glances, 
Only  these  ;  and  merely  beauty 
On  her  arched  brows  unfurled. 
And  with  these  she  shatters  lances, 
All  unarmed  binds  armed  Duty, 
And  in  triumph  drags  the  world  ! 


XVI.  SEMI-CHORUS.  CHORUS. 
CASSANDRA.  AGAMEMNON. 
CLYTEMNESTRA.  jEGISTHUS. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Break  off,  break  off !     It  seems  I  heard 
aery. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


331 


CHORUS. 

Surely  one  called  within  the  house. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Stand  by. 
CHORUS. 

The  Prophetess  is  troubled.     Look,  her 

eye 
Rolls  fearfully. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Now  all  is  husht  once  more. 

CHORUS. 
I  hear  the  feet  of  some  one  at  the  door. 

AGAMEMNON    (within). 

Murderess  !  oh,  oh ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
The  house  is  filled  with  shrieks. 

CHORUS. 

The   sound   deceives  or  that  was    the 
King's  voice. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

The  voice  of  Agamemnon  ! 

AGAMEMNON  (within). 

Ail  ai !  ai ! 

CASSANDRA. 

The  bull  is  in  the  toils. 

AGAMEMNON  (within). 

1  will  not  die  ! 

.ffiGISTHUS  (within). 

O  Zeus  !  he  will  escape. 

CLYTEMNESTRA  (within). 
He  has  it. 

AGAMEMNON  (within). 

Ai !  ai ! 

CHORUS. 

Some  hideous  deed  is  being  done  within. 
Burst  in  the  doors  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

I  cannot  open  them. 
Barred,  barred  within  ! 


CASSANDRA. 

The  axe  is  at  the  bull. 


Call  the  elders. 


CHORUS. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 


And  the  People.     0  Argives  !  Argives  ! 
Alinon  !  Alinon  ! 


You  to  the  Agora. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

To  the  temples  we. 

CHORUS. 
Hearken,  0  maidens ! 


This  way. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 
CHORUS. 

That  way. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Quick  !  quick  ! 

CASSANDRA. 

Seal  my  sight,  0  Apollo  !  0  Apollo  ! 


To  the  Agora  ! 


CHORUS. 


SEMI-CHORUS. 

To  the  temples ! 


CHORUS. 


Haste !  haste 


AGAMEMNON  (within). 
Stabbed,  oh ! 

CHORUS. 
Too  late  ! 

CASSANDRA. 

The  bull  is  bellowing. 

.EGISTHUS  (within). 
Thrust  there  again. 

CLYTEMNESTRA  (within). 

One  blow  has  done  it  alL 


332 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


JBGI8THU8  (within). 
Is  it  quite  through  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA  (within). 

He  will  not  move  again. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0  Heaven  and  Earth  !    My  heart  stands 

still  with  awe  ! 
Where  will  this  murder  end  ? 

CHORUS. 

Hold  !  some  one  comes  ! 


XVII.    ELECTRA.    ORESTES.    CHO- 
RUS.    A'  PHOCIAN. 

ELECTRA  (leading  ORESTES). 
Save  us !  save  him  —  Orestes  ! 

CHORUS. 

What  has  fallen  ? 

ELECTRA. 

An  evil  thing.     0,  we  are  fatherless  ! 

CHORUS. 

Ill-starred  Electra  !     But  how  fell  this 
chance  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Here    is    no    time   for  words,  —  scarce 

time  for  flight. 
When    from  his   royal  bath   the   King 

would  rise,  — 

That  devilish  woman,  lying  long  in  lurk, 
Behind  him  crept,  with  stealthy  feet  un- 
heard, 

And  flung  o'er  all  his  limbs  a  subtle  web. 
Caught  in  the  craft  of  whose  contrived 

folds, 
Stumbling,  he  fell.     JSgisthus  seized  a 

sword  ; 

But  halted,  half  irresolute  to  strike. 
My  father,  like  a  lion  in  the  toils, 
Upheaved    his    head,     and,    writhing, 

roared 'with  wrath, 

And  angry  shame  at  this  infernal  snare. 
Almost  ne  rent  the  blinding  nets  atwain. 
But  Clytemnestra  on  him  flung  herself, 
And   caught   the  steel,   and  smit   him 

through  the  ribs. 
He  slipped,  and  reeled.     She  drove  the 

weapon  through, 
Piercing  the  heart  ! 


CHORUS. 

0  woe  !  what  tale  is  this  ? 

ELECTRA. 

I,  too,  with  him,  had  died,  but  for  tliis 

child, 
And  that  high  vengeance  which  is  yet 

to  be. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  then  Agamemnon  is  no  more, 
Who  stood,  but  now,  amongst  us,  full 

of  life, 
Crowned   with  achieving    years !      The 

roof  and  cope 
Of  honor,  fallen  !     Where  shall  we  lift 

our  eyes  ? 
Where  set  renown  ?    Where  garner  up 

our  hopes  ? 
All  worth   is  dying  out.     The  land  is 

dark, 

And  Treason  looks  abroad  in  the  eclipse. 
He  did  not  die  the  death  of  men  that 

live 
Such  life  as  he  lived,  fall'n  among  his 

peers, 
Whom  the  red  battle  rolled  away,  while 

yet 
The  shout  of  Gods  was  ringing  through 

and  through  them  ; 
But  Death  that  feared  to  front  him  in 

full  field, 
Lurked  by  the  hearth  and  smote   him 

from  behind. 

A  mighty  man  is  gone.  A  mighty  grief 
Remains.  And  rumor  of  undying  deeds 
For  song  and  legend,  to  the  end  of  time  ! 
What  tower  is  strong  ? 

ELECTRA. 

0  friends  —  if  friends  you  be  — 
For  who  shall  say  where  falsehood  festers 

not, 
Those  being  falsest,  who  should  most  be 

true? 
Where  is  that  Phocian  ?    Let  him  take 

the  boy, 
And  bear  him  with  him  to  his  master's 

court. 
Else  will  ^Egisthus  slay  him. 


Fear  you  not  ? 


Orphaned  one, 

ORESTES. 

I  am  Agamemnon's  son. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


333 


CHORUS. 

Therefore  shouldst  fear  — 

ORESTES. 
And  therefore  cannot  fear. 

PHOCIAN. 
I  heard  a  cry.     Did  any  call  ? 

CHORUS. 

0,  well ! 

You  happen   this  way  in  the  need  of 
time. 

ELECTRA. 

0  loyal  stranger,  Agamemnon's  child 
Is  fatherless.     This  boy  appeals  to  you. 
0  save  him,  save  him  from  his  father's 
foes  ! 


Unhappy  lady,    what  wild   words    are 
these? 

ELECTRA. 

The  house  runs  blood.     JSgisthus,  like 

a  fiend, 
Is  raging   loose,    his  weapon   dripping 

gore. 

CHORUS. 
The  king  is  dead. 

PHOCIAN. 
Is  dead  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Dead. 


PHOCIAN. 


Do  I  dream  ? 


ELECTRA. 

Such  dreams  are  dreamed  in  hell  —  such 

dreams  —  0  no  ! 
Is    not    the    earth    as    solid  —  heaven 

above  — 
The  sun  in  heaven  —  and  Nature  at  her 

work  — 
And    men   at    theirs  —  the   same  ?    0, 

no  !  no  dream  ! 
We  shall  not  wake  —  nor  he  ;   though 

the  Gods  sleep  ! 
Unnaturally  murdered  — 


PHOCIAN. 

Murdered  ! 


Ay. 

And  the  sun  blackens  not ;  the  world  is 
green  ; 

The  fires  of  the  red  west  are  not  put  out. 

Is  not  the  cricket  singing  in  the  grass  ? 

And  the  shy  lizard  shooting  through  the 
leaves  ? 

I  hear  the  ox  low  in  the  labored  field. 

Those  swallows  build,  and  are  as  gar- 
rulous 

High  up  i'  the  towers.  Yet  I  speak  the 
truth, 

By  Heaven  I  speak  the  truth  — 

PHOCIAN. 

Yet  more,  vouchsafe 
How  died  the  king  ? 

ELECTRA. 

0,  there  shall  be  a  time 
For  words  hereafter.     While  we   dally 

here, 
Fate  haunts,  and  hounds  us.     Friend, 

receive  this  boy. 

Bear  him  to  Strophius.     All  this  tragedy 
Relate   as   best    you   may ;    it    beggars 

speech. 
Tell  him  a  tower  of  hope  is  fallen  this 

day  — 
A  name  in  Greece  — 

PHOCIAN. 
—  But  you  — 

ELECTRA. 

Away  !  away  ! 
Destruction  posts  apace,  while  we  delay. 


Come  then  ! 


PHOCIAN. 


I  dare  not  leave  my  father's  hearth, 
For  who  would  then  do  honor  to  his  urn  ? 
It  may  be  that  my  womanhood  and 

youth 

May  help  me  here.     It  may  be  I  shall  fall, 
And  mix   my   own  with   Agamemnon's 

blood. 

\o  matter.     On  Orestes  hangs  the  hope 
Of  all  this  House.     Him  save  for  better 

days, 
And  ripened  vengeance. 


334 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


PHOCIAN. 

Noble-hearted  one  ! 
Come  then,  last  offspring  of  this  fated 

race. 
The  future  calls  thee  ! 


OKKSTKS. 


Sister  !  Sister ! 


ELECTRA. 
ORESTES. 


Go! 


0  Sister ! 

ELECTRA. 

0  my  brother  ! .  .  .  One  last  kiss,  — 
One  last  long  kiss,  —  how  I  have  loved 

thee,  boy  ! 
Was  it  for  this  I  nourished  thy  young 

years 
With  stately  tales,  and  legends  of  the 

gods? 
For  this  ?  .  .  .  How  the  past  crowds  upon 

me !    Ah  — 

Wilt  thou  recall,  in  lonely,  lonely  hours, 
How  once  we  sat  together  on  still  eves, 
(Ah  me  !)  and   brooded  on   all  serious 

themes 
Of  sweet,  and  high,  and  beautiful,  and 

good, 
That  throng  the  ancient  years.     Alcme- 

na's  son, 

And  how  his  life  went  out  in  fire  on  (Eta  ; 
Or  of  that  bright-haired  wanderer  after 

fame, 
That  brought  the  great  gold-fleece  across 

the  sea, 

And  left  a  name  in  Colchis  ;  or  we  spake 
Of  the  wise  Theseus,  councils,  kingdoms, 

thrones, 

And  laws  in  distant  lands  ;  or,  later  still, 
Of  the  great  leaguer  set  round  I  lion, 
And  what  heart-stirring  tidings  of  the 

war 
Bards  brought  to  Hellas.     But  when  I 

would  breathe 
Thy  father's  name,  didst  thou  not  grasp 

my  hand, 
And  glorious  deeds  shone  round  us  like 

the  stars 
That  lit  the  dark  world  from  a  great  way 

off, 
And  died  up  into  heaven,  among  the 

Gods? 

ORESTES. 

Sirtev,  0  Sister ! 


Away !  away ! 


ELECTRA. 

Ah,  too  long  we  linger. 

PHOCIAN. 

Come  ! 


CHORUS. 

Heaven  go  with  thee  ! 
To  Crissa  points  the  hand  of  Destiny. 

ELECTRA. 

Oboy,  on  thee  Fate  hangs  an  awful 

weight 

Of  retribution  !     Let  thy  father's  ghost 
Forever  whisper  in  thine  ear.     Be  strong. 
About  thee,  yet  unborn,  thy  mother  wove 
The  mystic  web  of  life  in  such-like  form 
That  Agamemnon's  spirit  in  thine  eyes 
Seems  living  yet.     His  seal   is  set  on 

thee ; 
And  Pelops'  ivory  shoulder  marks  thee 

his. 
Thee,  child,  nor  contests  on  the  Isthmian 

plain, 

Nor  sacred  apple,  nor  green  laurel-leaf, 
But  graver  deeds  await.      Forget  not, 

son, 
Whose    blood,    unwashed,    denies    thy 

mother's  doors ! 

CHORUS. 

0   haste  !    I   hear  a  sound  within   the 
house. 

ELECTRA. 

Farewell,  then,  son  of  Agamemnon  ! 


PHOCIAN. 


Come! 


XVIII.  ELECTRA.  CHORUS.  &GIS- 
THUS. 

ELECTRA. 

Gone  !   gone  !    Ah  saved  ! .  .  .  O  fool, 
thou  missest,  here  ! 

CHORUS. 
Alas,  Electra,  whither  wilt  thou  go  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Touch  me  not !    Come  not  near  me ! 

Let  me  be  ! 
For  this  day,  which  I  hoped  for,  is  not 

mine. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


335 


CHORUS. 

See  how  she  gathers  round  her  all  her 

robe, 

And  sits  apart  with  grief.     0,  can  it  be 
Great  Agamemnon  is  among  the  shades  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Would  I  had  grasped  his  skirt,  and  fol- 
lowed him  ! 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  there  is  an  eminence  of  joy, 
Where  Fate  grows  dizzy,  being  mounted 

there, 
And  so  tilts  over  on  the  other  side  ! 

0  fallen,  0  fallen 

The  tower,  which  stood  so  high  ! 

Whose  base  and  girth  were  strong  i'  the 

earth, 

Whose  head  was  in  the  sky  ! 
0  fall'n  that  tower  of  noble  power, 
That  filled  up  every  eye  ! 

He  stood  so  sure,  that  noble  tower  ! 
To  make  secure,  and  fill  with  power, 
From  length  to  length,  the  land  of 

Greece  ! 

In  whose  strong  bulwarks  all  men  saw, 
Garnered  on  the  lap  of  law, 
For  dearth  or  danger,  spears  of  war, 
And  harvest  sheaves  of  peace  ! 
0  fall'n,  0  fall'n  that  lofty  tower,— 
The  loftiest  tower  in  Greece  ! 

His  brows  he  lift  above  the  noon, 
Filled  with  the  day,  a  noble  tower  ! 
Who  took  the  sunshine  and  the  shower, 
And  flung  them  back  in  merry  scorn. 
Who  now  shall  stand  when   tempests 

lower  ? 

He  was  the  first  to  catch  the  morn, 
The  last  to  see  the  moon. 
0  friends,  he  was  a  noble  tower  ! 
0  friends,  and  fall'n  so  soon  ! 

Ah,  well !  lament !  lament ! 
His  walls  are  rent,  his  bulwarks  bent, 
And  stooped  that  crested  eminence, 
Which  stood  so  high  for  our  defence  ! 
For  our  defence,  —  to  guard,  and  fence 
From  all  alarm  of  hurt  and  harm, 
The  fulness  of  a  land's  content ! 
0  fall'n  away,  fall'n  at  midday, 
And  set  before  the  sun  is  down, 
The  highest  height  of  our  renown  ! 


0  overthrown,  the  ivory  throne  ! 
The  spoils  of  war,  the  golden  crown, 
And  chiefest  honor  of  the  state  ! 
0  mourn  with  me  !  what  tower  is  free 
From  over-topping  destiny  ? 
What  strength  is  strong  to  fate  ? 

0  mourn  with  me  !  when  shall  we  see 
Another  such,  so  good,  so  great  ? 
Another  such,  to  guard  the  state  ? 

^EGISTHUS. 
He  should  have  stayed  to  shout  through 

Troy,  or  bellow 
With  bulls  in  Ida  — 

CHORUS. 

Look  !    ^Egisthus  comes  ! 
Like  some  lean  tiger,  having  dipt  in 

blood 
His  dripping  fangs,  and  hot  athirst  for 

more. 
His    lurid  eyeball  rolls,   as  though   it 

swam 
Through  sanguine  films.     He  staggers, 

drunk  with  rage 
And  crazy  mischief. 

.EGISTHUS. 

Hold  !  let  no  one  stir  ! 

1  charge  you,  all  of  you,  who  hear  me 


Where  may  the  boy  Orestes  lie  concealed? 
I  hold  the  life  of  each  in  gage  for  his. 
If  any  know  where  now  he  hides  from 

us, 
Let  him  beware,  not  rendering  true  re- 

ply! 

CHORUS. 

The  boy  is  fled  — 

ELECTRA. 

—  is  saved ! 

.ffiGISTHUS. 

Electra  here  ! 
How  mean  you  ?    What  is  this  ? 

ELECTRA. 

Enough  is  left 
Of  Agamemnon's  blood  to  drown  you  in. 

^EGISTHUS. 

You  shall  not  trifle  with  me,    by  my 

beard  ! 
There  's  peril  in  this  pastime.     Where  's 

the  boy  ? 


336 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


ELECTRA. 

Half-way  to  Phocis,  Heaven  helping  him. 

AOISTHUS. 
By  the  black  Styx ! 


Take  not  the  oath  of  Gods, 
Who  art  but  half  a  man,  blaspheming 
coward ! 

2BGISTHU8. 

But  you,  by  Heaven,  if  this  be  a  sword, 
Shall  not  be  any  more  — 

ELECTRA. 

A  slave  to  thee, 
Blundering  bloodshedder,  though  thou 

boast  thyself 

As  huge  as  Ossa  piled  on  Pelion, 
Or  anything  but  that  weak  wretch  thou 

art! 
0,  thou  hast  only  half  done  thy  black 

work  ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  slain  the  young  lion 

with  the  old. 
Look  that  he  come  not  back,  and  find 

himself 
Ungiven  food,  and  still  the  lion's  share  ! 

.EGISTHUS. 
Insolent !  but  I  know  to  seal  thy  lips  — 

ELECTRA. 

—  For  thon  art  only  strong  among  the 

weak. 

We  know  thou  hast  an  aptitude  for  blood. 
To  take  a  woman's  is  an  easy  task, 
And  one  well  worthy  thee. 

.EGI8THUS. 

O,  but  for  words  ! 

ELECTRA. 

Yet,  couldst  thou  feed  on  all  the  noble 

blood 

Of  godlike  generations  on  this  earth, 
It  should  not  help  thee  to  a  hero's  heart. 

CHORUS. 

0  peace,  Electra,  but  for  pity's  sake  ! 
Heap  not  his  madness  to  such  dangerous 
heights. 


ELECTRA. 

I  will  speak  out  my  heart's  scorn, 
I  die. 


.ffiGISTHUS. 

And  thou  shalt  die,  but  not  till  I  have 

tamed 
That  stubborn  spirit  to  a  wish  for  life-. 

CHORUS. 

0  cease,  infatuate  !     I  hear  the  Que.-n. 

[By  a  movement  of  the  Eccydema  the  palace 
is  thrown  open,  and  discovers  CLYTKM- 
NESTRA  standing  over  the  body  O/  AGAMEM- 
NON. 


XIX.    CLYTEMNESTRA.    CHORUS. 
.EGISTHUS.     ELECTRA. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Argives  !  behold  the  man  who  was  your 


King! 


Dead !  dead ! 


CHORUS. 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Not  I,  but  Fate  hath  dealt  this  blow. 

CHORUS. 
Dead  !  dead,  alas  !  look  where  he  lies, 

0  friends  ! 
That  noble  head,  and  to  be  brought  so 

low  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  who  set  light  by  woman,  with  blind 
scorn, 

And  held  her  with  the  beasts  we  sacri- 
fice, 

Lies,  by  a  woman  sacrificed  himself. 

This  is  high  justice  which  appeals  to  you. 

CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not  words  for  this. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  are  but  as  the  instrument  of  heaven. 
Our  work  is  not  design,  but  destiny. 
A  God  directs  the  lightning  to  its  fall  ; 
It  smites  and  slays,  and  passes  other- 
where, 
Pure  in  itself,  as  when,  in  light,  it  left 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


337 


The  bosom  of  Olympus,  to  its  end. 

In  this  cold  heart  the  wrong  of  all  the 

past 

Lies  buried.     I  avenged,  and  I  forgive. 
Honor  him  yet.     He  is  a  king,  though 

fallen. 

CHORUS. 

0,  how  she  sets  Virtue's  own  crest  on 

Crime, 
And  stands  there  stern  as  Fate's  wild  arbi- 

tress  ! 
Not  any  deed  could  make  her  less  than 

great. 

(CLYTEMNESTKA  descends  the  steps,  and  lays 
her  hand  on  the  arm  o 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Put  up  the  sword  !     Enough  of  blood  is 
spilt. 

.      ^GISTHUS. 

Hist  !    0,  not  half,  —  Orestes  is  escaped. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Sufficient  for  the  future  be  that  thought. 
What  's  done  is  well  done.     What  'sun- 

done  —  yet  more  : 
Something  still  saved  from  crime. 

^EGISTHUS. 

This  lion's  whelp 
Will  work  some  mischief  yet. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

He  is  a  child  — 
—  Our  own  —  we  will  but  war  upon  the 

strong. 
Not  upon  infants.     Let  this  matter  rest. 

.&GISTHUS. 

0,  ever,  in  the  wake  of  thy  great  will 
Let  me  steer  sure  !  and  we  will  leave 

behind 
Great  tracks  of  light  upon  the  wonder- 

ing world. 
If  but  you  err  not  here  — 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

These  pale-eyed  groups  ! 
See  how  they  huddle  shuddering,  and 

stand  round  ; 

Aa  when  some  mighty  beast,  the  brin- 
dled lord 

22 


Of  the  rough  woodside,  sends  his  wild 

death-roar 

Up  the  shrill  caves,  the  meaner  denizens 
Of  ancient  woods,  shy  deer,  and  timorous 

hares, 
Peer  from  the  hairy  thickets,  and  shrink 

back. 
We  feared  the  lion,  and  we  smote  him 

down. 

Now  fear  is  over.     Shall  we  turn  aside 
To   harry  jackals  ?     Laugh  !     we   have 

not  laughed 

So  long,  I  think  you  have  forgotten  how  ! 
Have  we   no  right  to  laugh  like  other 

men  ? 
Ha  !  Ha  !  I  laugh.     Now  it  is  time  t<? 

laugh  ! 

CHORUS. 
0,  awful  sight !     Look  where  the  bloody 

sun, 
As  though  with  Agamemnon   he  were 

slain, 
Runs  reeking,  lurid,   down   the  palace 

floors  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

0   my  beloved  !     Now   will   we    reign 
sublime, 

And  set  our  foot  upon  the  neck  of  For- 
tune ! 

And,  for  the  rest  —  0,  much  remains  ! 
—  for  you, 

(To  the  CHORUS.) 

A  milder  sway,  if  mildly  you  submit 

To  our  free  service  and  supremacy. 

Nor  tax,  nor  toll,  'to  carry  dim  results 

Of  distant  \va.r  beyond  the  perilous  seas. 

But  gateless  justice  in  our  halls  of  state, 

And  peace  in  all  the  borders  of  our  land  ! 

For  you  — 

(To  ELECTRA,  who  has  thrown  herself  upon  tht 
body  of  AGAMEMNON.) 


0,  hush  !     What  more  remains  to  me, 
But  this  dead  hand,  whose  clasp  is  cold 

in  mine  ? 

And  all  the  baffled  memory  of  the  past, 
Buried  with  him  ?     What  more  ? 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

—  A  mother's  heart, 
If  you  will  come  to  it.  Free  confidence. 
A  liberal  share  in  all  our  future  hope. 


838 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


Now,  more  than  ever — mutually  weak  — 
We  stand  in  need,  each  of  the  other's 

love. 
Our  love  !   it  shall  not  sacrifice  thee, 

child, 

To  wanton  whims  of  war,  as  he,  of  old, 
Did  thy  dead  sister.     If  you  will  not 

llifSf, 

But  answer  love  with  scorn,  why  then  — 

ELECTRA. 

—  What  then  ? 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Safe  silence.     And  permission  to  forget. 


XX.  CHORUS.  SEMI-CHORUS. 
CLYTEMNESTRA.  CASSANDRA. 
jEGISTHUS. 

CHORUS. 

What  shall  we  say  ?    What  has  been 

done  ? 

Shed  no  tear  !     O,  shed  no  tear  ! 
Hang  up  his  harness  in  the  sun  ; 
The  hooked  car,  and  barbed  spear  ; 
And  all  war's  adamantine  gear 
Of  trophied  spoils  ;  for  all  his  toils 
Are  over,  alas  !  are  over,  and  done  ! 
What  shall  we  say  ?    What  has  been 

done  ? 

Shed  no  tear  !    0,  shed  no  tear  ! 
But  keep  solemn  silence  all, 
As  befits  when  heroes  fall  ; 
Solemn  as  his  fame  is  ;  sad 
As  his  end  was  ;  earth  shall  wear 
Mourning  for  him.     See,  the  sun 
Blushes  red  for  what  is  done  ! 
And  the  wild  stars,  one  by  one, 
Peer  out  of  the  lurid  air, 
And  shrink  back  with  awe  and  fear, 
Shuddering,  for  what  is  done. 
When  the  night  comes,  dark  and  dun 
As  our  sorrow  ;  blackness  far 
Shutting  out  the  crimson  sun  ; 
Turn  his  face  to  the  moon  and  star,  — 
These  are  bright  as  his  glories  are,  — 
And  great  Heaven  shall  see  its  son  ! 
What  shall  we  say  ?    What  has  been 

done  ? 

Shed  no  tear  !  0,  shed  no  tear  ! 
Gather  round  him,  friends  !     Look  here  ! 
All  the  wreaths  which  he  hath  won 
In  the  race  that  he  hath  run,  — 
Laurel  garlands,  every  one  ! 


These  are  things  to  think  upon, 

Mourning  till  the  set  of  sun,  — 

Till  the  mourning  moon  appear. 

Now  the  wreaths  which  Fame  begun 

To 'uplift,  to  crown  his  head, 

Memory  shall  seize  upon, 

And  make  chaplets  for  his  bier. 

He  shall   have   wreaths  though   he  be 

dead ! 

But  his  monument  is  here, 
Built  up  in  our  hearts,  and  dear 
To  all  honor.     Shed  no  tear  ! 
0,  let  not  any  tear  be  shed  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 
Look  at  Cassandra  !  she  is  stooping  down. 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

She  dips  and  moves  her  fingers  in  the 
blood  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

Look  to  her  !    There  'a  &  wildness  in  her 
eye  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

What  does  she  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS. 

0,  in  Agamemnon's  blood, 
She  hath  writ  Orestes  on  the  palace  steps ! 


^EgLsthus ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 
.ffiGISTHUS. 

Queen  and  bride  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

We  have  not  failed. 

CHORUS. 

Come,  venerable,  ancient  Night ! 
From  sources  of  the  western  stars, 
In  darkest  shade  that  fits  this  woe. 
Consoler  of  a  thousand  griefs, 
And  likest  death  unalterably  calm. 
We  toil,  aspire,  and  sorrow, 
And  in  a  little  while  shall  cease. 
For  we  know  not  whence  we  came, 
And  who  can  insure  the  morrow  ? 
Thou,  eternally  the  same, 
From  of  old,  in  endless  peace 
Eternally  survivr 
Enduring  on  through  good  and  ill, 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 


339 


Coeval  with  the  Gods  ;  and  still 

In  thine  own  silence  Hvest. 

Our  days  thou  leadest  home 

To   the  great  Whither  which    has  no 

Again  ! 

Impartially  to  pleasure  and  to  pain 
Thou  sett'st  the  bourn.    To  thee  shall  all 

things  come. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

But,  if  he  cease  to  love  me,  what  is 
gained  ? 

CASSANDRA. 

With  wings  darkly  spreading, 

Like  ravens  to  the  carcass 

Scenting  far  off  the  savor  of  blood, 

From  shores  of  the  unutterable  River. 

They  gather  and  swoop, 

They  waver,  they  darken. 

From  the  fangs  that  raven, 

From  the  eyes  that  glare 

Intolerably  fierce, 

Save  me,  Apollo  ! 

Ai  !  Ai !  Ai ! 

Alinon  !  Alinon  ! 

Blood,  blood  !  and  of  kindred  nature, 

Which  the  young  wolf  returning 

Shall  dip  his  fangs  in, 

Thereby  accursedly 

Imbibing  madness  ! 

CHORUS. 
The   wild  woman   is    uttering    strange 

things 
Fearful  to  listen  to. 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Within  the  house 
Straightway  confine  her, 
There  to  learn  wisdom. 


jEGISTHUS. 

Orestes  —  0,  this  child's  life  now  out- 
weighs 
That  mighty  ruin,  Agamemnon  dead  ! 

CLYTEMNESTRA. 

^Egisthus,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 


JEGISTHUS. 


As  my  life  ! 


CLYTEMNESTRA. 

Thou  lovest  me  !     0  love,  we  have  not 

failed. 
Give  me  thy  hand  !     So  ...  lead  me  to 

the  house. 
Let  me  lean  on  thee.     I  am  very  weak. 

CHORUS. 

Only  Heaven  is  high. 
Only  the  Gods  are  great. 
Above  the  searchless  sky, 
In  unremoved  state, 
They  from  their  golden  mansions 
Look  over  the  lands,  and  the  seas  ; 
The  ocean's  wide  expansions, 
And  the  earth's  varieties  : 
Secure  of  their  supremacy, 
And  sure  of  affluent  ease. 
Who  shall  say  "  I  stand  !  "  nor  fall  ? 
Destiny  is  over  all  ! 
Rust  will  crumble  old  renown. 
Bust  and  column  tumble  down  ; 
Keep  and  castle  ;  tower  and  town  ; 
Throne  and  sceptre  ;  crest  and  crown. 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 
One  by  one,  the  pale  guests  fall 
At  lighted  feast,  in  palace  hall ; 
And  feast  is  turned  to  funeral. 
Who  shall  say  "  I  stand  !  "  nor  fall  ? 
Destiny  is  over  all ! 


340  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  Poi;<  H. 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE  POEOH. 

A  LITTLE  longer  in  the  light,  love,  let  me  be.     The  air  is  warm. 

I  hear  the  cuckoo's  hist  good-night  float  from  the  copse  below  the  Farm. 

A  little  longer,  Sister  sweet,  —  your  hand  in  mine,  — on  this  old  seat. 

In  yon  red  gable,  which  the  rose  creeps  round  and  o'er,  your  casement  shines 

Against  the  yellow  west,  o'er  those  forlorn  and  solitary  pines. 

The  long,  long  day  is  nc:irly  done.     How  silent  all  the  place  is  grown  ! 

The  stagnant  levels,  one  and  all,  are  burning  in  the  distant  marsh  — 

Hark  !    t  was  the  bittern's  parting  call.     The  frogs  are  out :  with  murmurs  harsh 

The  low  reeds  vibrate.     See  !  the  sun  catches  the  long  pools  one  by  one. 

A  moment,  and  those  orange  flats  will  turn  dead  gray  or  lurid  white. 
Look  up  !  o'erhead  the  winnowing  bats  are  come  and  gone,  eluding  sight. 
The  little  worms  are  out.     The  snails  begin  to  move  down  shining  trails, 

With  slow  pink  cones,  and  soft  wet  horns.    The  garden-bowers  are  dim  with  dew. 
With  sparkling  drops  the  white-rose  thorns  are  twinkling,  where  the  sun  slips 

through 
Those  reefs  of  coral  buds  hung  free  below  the  purple  Judas-tree. 

From  the  warm  upland  comes  a  gust  made  fragrant  with  the  brown  hay  there. 
The  meek  cows,  with  their  white  horns  thrust  above  the  hedge,  stand  still  and 

stare. 
The  steaming  horses  from  the  wains  droop  o'er  the  tank  their  plaited  manes. 

And  o'er  yon  hillside  brown  and  barren  (where  you  and  I  as  children  played, 
Starting  the  rabbit  to  his  warren),  1  hear  the  sandy,  shrill  cascade 
Leap  down  upon  the  vale,  and  spill  his  heart  out  round  the  muffled  mill. 

0  can  it  be  for  nothing  only  that  God  has  shown  his  world  to  me  ? 

Or  but  to  leave  the  heart  more  lonely  with  loss  of  beauty  .  .  .  can  it  be  ? 

0  closer,  closer,  Sister  dear  .  .  .  nay,  I  have  kist  away  that  tear. 

God  bless  you,  Dear,  for  that  kind  thought  which  only  upon  tears  could  rise  ! 
God  bless  you  for  the  love  that  sought  to  hide  them  in  those  drooping  eyes, 
Whose  lids  I  kiss  !  .  .  .  poor  lids,  so  red  !  but  let  my  kiss  fall  there  instead. 

Yes,  sad  indeed  it  seems,  each  night,  — and  sadder,  Dear,  for  your  sweet  sake  ! 
To  watch  the  last  low  lingering  light,  and  know  not  where  the  morn  may  break. 
To-night  we  sit  together  here.     To-morrow  night  will  come  .  .  .  ah,  where  ? 

0  child  !  howe'er  assured  be  faith,  to  say  farewell  is  fraught  with  gloom, 
When,  like  one  flower,  the  germs  of  death  and  genius  ripen  toward  the  tomb  ; 
And  earth  each  day,  as  some  fond  face  at  parting,  gains  a  graver  grace. 

There  's  not  a  flower,  there  's  not  a  tree  in  this  old  garden  where  we  sit, 
But  what  some  fragrant  memory  is  closed  and  folded  up  in  it. 
To-night  the  dog-rose  smells  as  wild,  as  fresh,  as  when  I  was  a  child. 

T  is  eight  years  since  (do  you  forget  1}  we  set  those  lilies  near  the  wall  : 
You  were  a  blue-eye<l  child  :  even  yet  I  seem  to  see  the  ringlets  fall,  — 
The  golden  ringlets,  blown  behind  your  shoulders  in  the  merry  wind. 


GOOD-NIGHT  IN   THE  PORCH.  341 

Ah,  me  !  old  times,  they  cling,  they  cling  !     And  oft  by  yonder  green  old  gate 

The  field  shows  through,  in  morns  of  spring,  an  eager  boy,  I  paused  elate 

With  all  sweet  fancies  loosed  from  school.    And  oft,  you  know,  when  eves  "were  cool, 

In  summer-time,  and  through  the  trees  young  gnats  began  to  be  about, 

With  some  old  book  upon  your  knees  't  was  here  you  watched  the  stars  come  out. 

While  oft,  to  please  me,  you  sang  through  some  foolish  song  I  made  for  you. 

And  there 's  my  epic  —  I  began  when  life  seemed  long,  though  longer  art  — 
And  all  the  glorious  deeds  of  man  made  golden  riot  in  my  heart  — 
Eight  books  ...  it  will  not  number  nine  !     I  die  before  my  heroine. 

Sister  !  they  say  that  drowning  men  in  one  wild  moment  can  recall 

Their  whole  life  long,  and  feel  again  the  pain — the  bliss  —  that  thronged  it  all  :— 

Last  night  those  phantoms  of  the  Past  again  came  crowding  round  me  fast. 

Near  morning,  when  the  lamp  was  low,  against  the  wall  they  seemed  to  flit ; 
And,  as  the  wavering  light  would  glow  or  fall,  they  came  and  went  with  it. 
The  ghost  of  boyhood  seemed  to  gaze  down  the  dark  verge  of  vanisht  days. 

Once  more  the  garden  where  she  walked  on  summer  eves  to  tend  her  flowers, 
Once  more  the  lawn  where  first  we  talked  of  future  years  in  twilight  hours 
Arose  ;  once  more  she  seemed  to  pass  before  me  in  the  waving  grass 

To  that  old  terrace  ;  her  bright  hair  about  her  warm  neck  all  undone, 

And  waving  on  the  balmy  air,  with  tinges  of  the  dying  sun. 

Just  one  star  kindling  in  the  west :  just  one  bird  singing  near  its  nest. 

So  lovely,  so  beloved  !     0,  fair  as  though  that  sun  had  never  set 
Which  stayed  upon  her  golden  hair,  in  dreams  I  seem  to  see  her  yet ! 
To  see  her  in  that  old  green  place,  —  the  same  husht,  smiling,  cruel  face  ! 

A  little  older,  love,  than  you  are  now  ;  and  I  was  then  a  boy ; 
And  wild  and  wayward-hearted  too  ;  to  her  my  passion  was  a  toy, 
Soon  broken  !  ah,  a  foolish  thing,  —  a  butterfly  with  crumpled  wing  ! 

Her  hair,  too,  was  like  yours,  —  as  bright,  but  with  a  warmer  golden  tinge  : 
Her  eyes,  —  a  somewhat  deeper  light,  and  dreamed  below  a  longer  fringe  : 
And  still  that  strange  grave  smile  she  had  stays  in  my  heart  and  keeps  it  sad  ! 

There  's  no  one  knows  it,  truest  friend,  but  you,  for  I  have  never  breathed 
To  other  ears  the  frozen  end  of  those  spring-garlands  Hope  once  wreathed  ; 
And  death  will  come  before  again  I  breathe  that  name  untouched  by  pain. 

From  little  things  —  a  star,  a  flower  —  that  touched  us  with  the  self-same  thought, 
My  passion  deepened  hour  by  hour,  until  to  that  fierce  heat  't  was  wrought, 
Which,  shrivelling  over  every  nerve,  crumbled  the  outworks  of  reserve. 

I  told  her  then,  in  that  wild  time,  the  love  I  knew  she  long  had  seen  ; 

The  accusing  pain  that  burned  like  crime,  yet  left  me  nobler  than  I  had  been  ; 

What  matter  with  what  words  I  wooed  her  ?    She  said  I  had  misunderstood  her. 

And  something  more — small  matterwhat !  01  friendship  something — sister's  love— 
She  said  that  I  was  young  —  knew  not  my  own  heart  —  as  the  years  would  prove  — 
She  wished  me  happy  —  she  conceived  an  interest  in  me  —  and  believed 


342  GOOD-NIGHT  IN  THE   PORCH. 

I  should  grow  tip  to  something  great  —  and  soon  forget  her  —  soon  forget 

This  fancy  —  and  congratulate  my  life  she  had  released  it,  yet  — 

With  more  such  words  —  a  lie  !  a  lie  !     She  broke  my  heart,  and  flung  it  by  ! 

A  life's  libation  lifted  up,  from  her  proud  lip  she  dashed  untasted  : 
There  trampled  lay  love  s  costly  cup,  and  in  the  dust  the  wine  was  wasted. 
She  knew  I  could  not  pour  such  wine  again  at  any  other  shrine. 

Then  I  remember  a  numb  mood  :  mad  murmurings  of  the  words  she  said  : 

A  slow  shame  smouldering  through  my  blood  ;  that  surged  and  sung  within  my 

head  : 
And  drunken  sunlights  reeling  through  the  leaves  :  above,  the  buruisht  blue 

Hot  on  my  eyes,  —  a  blazing  shield  :  a  noise  among  the  waterfalls  : 

A  free  crow  up  the  brown  cornfield  floating  at  will :  faint  shepherd-calls : 

And  reapers  reaping  in  the  shocks  of  gold  :  and  girls  with  purple  frocks  : 

All  which  the  more  confused  my  brain  :  and  nothing  could  I  realize 

But  the  great  fact  of  my  own  pain  :  I  saw  the  fields  :  I  heard  the  cries  : 

The  crow's  shade  dwindled  up  the  hill :  the  world  went  on  :  my  heart  stood  still. 

I  thought  1  held  in  my  hot  hand  my  life  crusht  up  :  I  could  have  tost 

The  crumpled  riddle  from  me,  and  laughed  loud  to  think  what  I  had  lost. 

A  bitter  strength  was  in  my  mind  :  like  Samson,  when  she  scorned  him  —  blind, 

And  casting  reckless  arms  about  the  props  of  life  to  hug  them  down,  — 
A  madman  with  his  eyes  put  out.     But  all  my  anger  was  my  own. 
I  spared  the  worm  upon  my  walk  :  I  left  the  white  rose  on  its  stalk. 

All 's  over  long  since.  Was  it  strange  that  I  was  mad  with  grief  and  shame  ? 
And  I  would  cross  the  seas,  and  change  my  ancient  home,  my  father's  name  ? 
In  the  wild  hope,  if  that  might  be,  to  change  my  own  identity  ! 

I  know  that  I  was  wrong  :  I  know  it  was  not  well  to  be  so  wild. 

But  the  scorn  stung  so  !  ...  Pity  now  could  wound  not !  .  .  .  I  have  seen  her  child  : 

It  had  the  self-same  eyes  she  had  :  their  gazing  almost  made  me  mad. 

Dark  violet  eyes  whose  glances,  deep  with  April  hints  of  sunny  tears, 
'Neath  long  soft  lashes  laid  asleep,  seemed  all  too  thoughtful  for  her  years  ; 
As  though  from  mine  her  gaze  had  caught  the  secret  of  some  mournful  thought. 

But,  when  she  spoke  her  father's  air  broke  o'er  her  .  .  .  that  clear  confident  voice  \ 
Some  happy  souls  there  are,  that  wear  their  nature  lightly  ;  these  rejoice 
The  world  by  living ;  and  receive  from  all  men  more  than  what  they  give. 

One  handful  of  their  buoyant  chaff  exceeds  our  hoards  of  careful  grain  : 

Because  their  love  breaks  through  their  laugh,  while  ours  is  fraught  with  tender 

pain  : 
The  world,  that  knows  itself  too  sad,  is  proud  to  keep  some  faces  glad  : 

And,  so  it  is  !  from  such  an  one  Misfortune  softly  steps  aside 

To  let  him  still  walk  in  the  sun.     These  things  must  be.     I  cannot  chide. 

Had  I  been  she  I  might  have  made  the  self-same  choice.     She  shunned  the  shadei 

• 

To  some  men  God  hath  given  laughter  :  but  tears  to  some  men  He  hath  given  : 
He  bade  us  sow  in  tears,  hereafter  to  harvest  holier  smiles  in  Heaven  : 
And  tears  and  .smiles,  they  are  His  gift :  both  good,  to  smite  or  to  uplift  : 


GOOD  NIGHT   IN  THE   PORCH.  343 

He  knows  His  sheep  :  the  wind  and  showers  heat  not  too  sharply  the  shorn  lamb : 

His  wisdom  is  more  wise  than  ours  :  He  knew  my  nature  —  what  I  am  : 

He  tempers  smiles  with  tears  :  both  good,  to  bear  in  time  the  Christian  mood. 

0  yet  —  in  scorn  of  mean  relief,  let  Sorrow  bear  her  heavenly  fruit ! 
Better  the  wildest  hour  of  grief  than  the  low  pastime  of  the  brute  ! 
Better  to  weep,  for  He  wept  too,  than  laugh  as  every  fool  can  do  ! 

For  sure,  't  were  best  to  bear  the  cross  ;  nor  lightly  fling  the  thorns  behind  ; 

Lest  we  grow  happy  by  the  loss  of  what  was  noblest  in  the  mind. 

—  Here  —  in  the  ruins  of  my  years  —  Father,  L  bless  Thee  through  these  tears  ! 

It  was  in  the  far  foreign  lands  this  sickness  came  upon  me  first. 
Below  strange  suns,  'mid  alien  hands,  this  fever  of  the  south  was  nurst, 
Until  it  reached  some  vital  part.     I  die  not  of  a  broken  heart. 

0  think  not  that !     If  I  could  live  .  .  .  there 's  much  to  live  for  —  worthy  life. 
It  is  not  for  what  fame  could  give  —  though  that  I  scorn  not  —  but  the  strife 
Were  noble  for  its  own  sake  too.     I  thought  that  I  had  much  to  do  — 

But  God  is  wisest !     Hark,  again  !  .  .  .  't  was  yon  black  bittern,  as  he  rose 

Against  the  wild  light  o'er  the  fen.     How  red  your  little  casement  glows  ! 

The  night  falls  fast.     How  lonely,  Dear,  this  bleak  old  house  will  look  next  year  ! 

So  sad  a  thought  ?  ...  ah,  yes  !  I  know  it  is  not  good  to  brood  on  this  : 

And  yet  —  such  thoughts  will  come  and  go,  unbidden.     'T  is  that  you  should  miss, 

My  darling,  one  familiar  tone  of  this  weak  voice  when  I  am  gone. 

And,  for  what 's  past,  —  I  will  not  say  in  what  she  did  that  all  was  right, 

But  all 's  forgiven  ;  and  I  pray  for  her  heart's  welfare,  day  and  night. 

All  things  are  changed  !    This  cheek  would  glow  even  near  hers  but  faintly  now  ! 

Thou  —  God  !  before  whose  sleepless  eye  not  even  in  vain  the  sparrows  fall, 
Receive,  sustain  me  !     Sanctify  my  soul.     Thou  know'st,  Thou  lovest  all. 
Too  weak  to  walk  alone  —  I  see  Thy  hand  :  I  falter  back  to  Thee. 

Saved  from  the  curse  of  time  which  throws  its  baseness  on  us  day  by  day  : 
Its  wretched  joys,  and  worthless  woes  ;  till  all  the  heart  is  worn  away. 

1  feel  Thee  near.     I  hold  my  breath,  by  the  half-open  doors  of  Death. 

And  sometimes,  glimpses  from  within  of  glory  (wondrous  sight  and  sound  !) 
Float  near  me  :  —  faces  pure  from  sin  ;  strange  music ;  saints  with  splendor  crowned : 
I  seem  to  feel  my  native  air  blow  down  from  some  high  region  there, 

And  fan  my  spirit  pure  :  I  rise  above  the  sense  of  loss  and  pain  : 

Faint  forms  that  lured  my  childhood's  eyes,  long  lost,  I  seem  to  find  again  : 

I  see  the  end  of  all :  I  feel  hope,  awe,  no  language  can  reveaL 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  overmuch  I  loved  that  form  Thou  mad'st  so  fair  ; 

I  know  that  Thou  didst  make  her  such  ;  and  fair  but  as  the  flowers  were,  — 

Thy  work  :  her  beauty  was  but  Thine  ;  the  human  less  than  the  divine. 

My  life  hath  been  one  search  for  Thee  'mid  thorns  found  red  with  Thy  dear  blood 
In  many  a  dark  Gethsemane  I  seemed  to  stand  where  Thou  hadst  stood  : 
And,  scorned  in  this  world's  Judgment-Place,  at  times,  through  tears,  to  catch 
Thy  face. 


344 


THE   EARL'S   IIKTTKN. 


Thou  suflVred'st  liriv,  and  didst  not  fail :  Thy  bleeding  feet  these  paths  have  trod  : 
But  Thou  \vi-rt  struni,',  and  I  am  frail  :  and  I  am  man,  and  Thou  wert  God. 
Be  near  me  :  keep  me  in  Thy  sight :  or  lay  my  soul  asleep  in  light. 

0  to  be  where  the  meanest  mind  is  more  than  Shakespeare  !  where  one  look 
Shows  more  than  here  the  wise  can  find,  though  toiling  slow  from  book  to  book! 
Where  life  is  knowledge  :  love  is  sure  :  and  hope's  brief  promise  made  secure. 

O  dying  voice  of  human  praise  !  the  crude  ambitions  of  my  youth  ! 

J  long  to  pour  immortal  lays  !  great  paeans  of  perennial  Truth  ! 

A  larger  work  !  a  loftier  aim  !  .  .  .  and  what  are  laurel-leaves,  and  fame  ? 

And  what  are  words  ?     How  little  these  the  silence  of  the  soul  express  ! 

Mere  froth,  —  the  foam  and  flower  of  seas  whose  hungering  waters  heave  and  press 

Against  the  planets  and  the  sides  of  night,  —  mute,  yearning,  mystic  tides  ! 

To  ease  the  heart  with  song  is  sweet :  sweet  to  be  heard  if  heard  by  love. 

And  you  have  heard  me.     When  we  meet  shall  we  not  sing  the  old  songs  above 

To  grander  music  ?    Sweet,  one  kiss.     0  blest  it  is  to  die  like  this  ! 

To  lapse  from  being  without  pain  :  your  hand  in  mine,  on  mine  your  heart : 
The  unshaken  faith  to  meet  again  that  sheathes  the  pang  with  which  we  part  : 
My  head  upon  your  bosom,  sweet :  your  hand  in  mine,  on  this  old  seat ! 

So  ;  closer  wind  that  tender  arm  .  .  .  How  the  hot  tears  fall  !     Do  not  weep, 
Beloved,  but  let  your  smile  stay  warm  about  me.     "  In  the  Lord  they  sleep." 
You  know  the  words  the  Scripture  saith  ...  0  light,  0  Glory  !  ...  is  this  death  ? 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN 


RAGGED  and  tall  stood  the  castle  wall 
And  the  squires,  at  their  sport,  in  the 

great  South  Court, 

Lounged  all  day  long  from  stable  to  hall 
Laughingly,  lazily,  one  and  all. 
The  land  about  was  barren  and  blue, 
And  swept  by  the  wing  of  the  wet  sea- 
mew. 

Seven  fishermen's  huts  on  a  shelly  shore  : 
Sand-heaps  behind,  and  sand-banks  be- 
fore : 
And  a  black  champaign  streaked  white 

all  through 

To  a  great  salt  pool  which  the  ocean  drew, 
Sucked  into  itself,  and  disgorged  it  again 
To  stagnate  and  steam  on  the  mineral 

plain  ; 

Not  a  tree  or  a  bush  in  the  circle  of  sight, 
But  a  bare  black  thorn  which  the  sea- 
winds  had  withered 

With  the  drifting  scum  of  the  surf  and 
blight, 


And  some  patches  of  gray  grass-land  to 

the  right, 
Where  the  lean   red-hided  cattle  were 

tethered  : 

A  reef  of  rock  wedged  the  water  in  twain, 
And  a  stout  stone  tower  stood  square  to 

the  main. 

And  the  flakes  of  the  spray  that  were 

jerked  away 
From  the  froth  on  the  lip  of  the  bleak 

blue  sea 
Were  sometimes  flung  by  the  wind,  as  it 

swung 

Over  turret  and  terrace  and  balcony, 
To  the  garden  below  where,  in  desolate 

corners 

Tinder  the  mossy  green  parapet  there, 
The  lilies  crouched,  rocking  their  white 

heads  Ifke  mourners, 
And  burned  off  the  heads  of  the  flowers 

that  were 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


345 


Pining   and   pale   in   their   comfortless 

bowers, 
Dry-bushed   with   the   sharp   stubborn 

lavender, 

And  paven  with  disks  of  the  torn  sun- 
flowers, 
Which,  day  by  day,  were  strangled,  and 

stripped 
Of  their  ravelling   fringes   and   brazen 

bosses, 
And  the  hardy  mary-buds  nipped  and 

ripped 
Into  shreds  for  the  beetles  that  lurked 

in  the  mosses. 

Here  she  lived  alone,  and  from  year  to 
year 

She  saw  the  black  belt  of  the  ocean  appear 

At  her  casement  each  morn  as  she  rose  ; 
and  each  morn 

Her  eye  fell  first  on  the  bare  black  thorn. 

This  was  all :  nothing  more  :  or  some- 
times on  the  shore 

The  fishermen  sang  when  the  fishing  was 
o'er ; 

Or  the  lowing  of  oxen  fell  dreamily, 

Close  on  the  shut  of  the  glimmering  eves, 

Through  some  gusty  pause  in  the  moan- 
ing sea, 

When  the  pools  were  splashed  pink  by 
the  thirsty  beeves. 

Or  sometimes,  when  the  pearl-lighted 
morns  drew  the  tinges 

Of  the  cold  sunrise  up  their  amber  fringes, 

A  white  sail  peered  over  the  rim  of  the 
main, 

Looked  all  about  o'er  the  empty  sea, 

Staggered  back  from  the  fine  line  of 
white  light  again, 

And  dropped  down  to  another  world 
silently. 

Then  she  breathed  freer.  With  sicken- 
ing dread 

She  had  watched  five  pale  young  moons 
unfold 

From  their  notchy  cavern  in  light,  and 
spread 

To  the  fuller  light,  and  again  grow  old, 

And  dwindle  away  to  a  luminous  shred. 

"He  will  not  come  back  till  the  Spring 's 
green  and  gold. 

And  I  would  that  I  with  the  leaves  were 
dead, 

Quiet  somewhere  with  them  in  the  moss 
and  the  mould, 

When  he  and  the  summer  come  this 
way,"  she  said. 


And  when  the  dull  sky  darkened  down 

to  the  edges, 
And  the  keen  frost  kindled  in  star  and 

spar, 
The  sea  might  be  known  by  a  noise  on 

the  ledges 
Of  the  long  crags,  gathering  power  from 

afar 
Through  his  roaring  bays,  and  crawling 

back 
Hissing,    as   o'er   the  wet    pebbles    he 

dragged 
His  skirt  of  foam  frayed,  dripping,  and 


And  reluctantly  fell  down  the  smooth 

hollow  shell 
Of  the  night,  whose  lustrous  surface  of 

black 

In  spots  to  an  intense  blue  was  worn. 
But  later,  when  up  on  the  sullen  sea-bar 
The  wide  large-lighted  moon  had  arisen, 
Where  the  dark  and  voluminous  ocean 

grew  luminous, 
Helping  after  her  slowly  one  little  shy 

star 
That  shook  blue  in  the  cold,  and  looked 

forlorn, 
The  clouds  were  troubled,  and  the  wind 

from  his  prison 
Behind  them  leaped  down  with  a  light 

laugh  of  scorn  ; 
Then  the  last  thing  she  saw  was  that 

bare  black  thorn  ; 
For  the  forked  tree,  as  *\e  bleak  blast 

took  it, 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and  bit 

it,  and  shook  it, 
Seemed  to  visibly  waste  and  wither  and 


And  the  snow  was  lifted  into  the  air 

Layer  by  layer, 

And  turned  into  vast  white  clouds  that 

flew 
Silent  and  fleet  up  the  sky,  and  were 

riven 
And  jerked  into  chasms  which  the  sun 

leaped  through, 

Opening  crystal  gulfs  of  a  breezy  blue 
Fed  with  rainy  lights  of  the  April  heaven. 
From  eaves  and  leaves  the,  quivering  dew 
Sparkled  off ;  and  the  rich  earth,  black 

and  bare, 

Was  starred  with  snowdrops  everywhere  ; 
And  the  crocus  upturned  its  flame,  and 

burned 
Here  and  there. 


346 


THE   EARL'S   RETURN. 


"The    Summer,"    she    said,    "cometh 

blithe  and  bold  ; 

And  the  crocus  is  lit  for  her  welcoming  ; 
And   the   days   will   have  garments   of 

purple  and  gold ; 
But  1  would  be  left  by  the  pale  green 

Spring 
With  the  snowdrops  somewhere  under 

the  mould  ; 
For  I  dare  not  think  what  the  Summer 

may  bring." 

Pale  she  was  as  the  bramble  blooms 
That  till  the  long  fields  with  their  faint 

perfumes, 
When  the  May- wind  flits  finely  through 

sun-threaded  showers, 
Breathing  low  to   himself  in   his  dim 

meadow-bowers. 
And  her  cheek  each  year  was  paler  and 

thinner, 
And  white  as  the  pearl  that  was  hung  at 

her  ear, 
As  her  sad  heart  sickened  and  pined 

within  her, 

And  failed  and  fainted  from  year  to  year. 
So  that  the  Seneschal,  rough  and  gray, 
Said,  as  lie  looked  in  her  face  one  day, 
"St.  Catherine  save  all  good  souls,  I  pray, 
For  our  pale  young  lady  is  paling  away. 
O  the  Saints,"  he  said,  smiling  bitter 

and  grim, 
"Know  she's  too  fair  and  too  good  for 

him  !  " 

Sometimes  she  walked  on  the  upper  leads, 
And  leaned  on  the  arm  of  the  weather- 
worn Warden. 

Sometimes  she  sat'twixt  themildewy  beds 
Of  the  sea-singed  flowers  in  the  Pleas- 

aunce  Garden. 
Till  the  rotting  blooms  that  lay  thick  on 

the  walks 
Were  combed  by  the  white  sea-gust  like 

a  rake, 
And  the  stimulant  steam  of  the  leaves 

and  stalks 

Made  the  coile*d  memory,  numb  and  cold, 
That  slept  in  her  heart  like  a  dreaming 

snake, 

Drowsily  lift  itself  fold  by  fold, 
And    gnaw    and  gnaw    hungrily,   half 

awake. " 

Sometimes  she  looked  from  the  window 

below 
To    the    great    South  Court,   and    the 

squires,  at  their  sport, 


Loungingly  loitering  to  and  fro. 

She  heard   the  grooms  there   as    they 

cursed  one  another. 
She  heard  the  great  bowls  falling  all  day 

long 
In  the  bowling-alleys.     She  heard  the 

song 
Of  the  shock-headed  Pages  that  drank 

without  stint  in 
The  echoing  courts,  and  swore  hard  at 

each  other. 
She  saw  the  red  face  of  the  rough  wooden 

Quintin, 
And    the  swinging  sand-bag  ready  to 

smother 
The   awkward   Squire  that   missed  the 

mark. 
And,    all   day   long,   between   the  dull 

noises 
Of  the  bowls,   and  the  oaths,  and  the 

singing  voices, 
The  sea  boomed  hoarse  till  the  skies 

were  dark. 

But  when  the  swallow,  that  sweet  new- 
comer, 
Floated  over  the  sea  in  the  front  of  the 

summer, 
The  salt  dry  sands  burned  white,  and 

sickened 
Men's  sight  in  the  glaring  horn  of  the 

bay  ; 
And  all  things  that  fasten,  or  float  at 

ease 

In  the  silvery  light  of  the  leprous  seas 
With  the  pulse  of  a  hideous  life  were 

quickened, 
Fell  loose  from  the  rocks,  and  crawled 

crosswise  away, 

Slippery  sidelong  crabs,  half  strangled 
By  the  white  sea  grasses  in  which  they 

were  tangled, 
And  those  half-living  creatures,  orbed, 

rayed,  and  sharp-angled, 
Fan-fish,    and    star-fish,    and    polypous 

lumps, 
Hueless   and   boneless,    that    languidly 

thickened, 
Or  flat-faced,  or  spiked,  or  ridged  with 

humps, 
Melting  off  from  their  clotted  clusters 

and  clumps 
Sprawled  over  the  shore  in  the  heat  of 

the  day. 

An  hour  before  the  sun  was  set 
A  darker  ripple  rolled  over  the  sea ; 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


347 


The  white  rocks   quivered  in  wells  of 

jet; 

And  the  great  West,  opening  breathlessly 
Up  all  his  inmost  orange,  gave 
Hints  of  something  distant  and  sweet 
That  made  her  heart  swell ;  far  up  the 

wave 
The  clouds  that  lay  piled  in  the  golden 

heat 
Were  turned  into  types  of  the  ancient 

mountains 
In  an  ancient  land  ;  the  weeds,  which 

forlorn 

Waves  were  swaying  neglectfully, 
By   their  sound,    as  they  dipped   into 

sparkles  that  dripped 
In  the  emerald  creeks  that  ran  up  from 

the  shore, 
Brought  back  to  her  fancy  the  bubble 

of  fountains 

Leaping  and  falling  continually 
In  valleys  where  she  should  wander  no 

more. 

And  when,  over  all  of  these,  the  night 
Among  her  mazy  and  milk-white  signs, 
And  clustered  orbs,  and  zigzag  lines, 
Burst  into  blossom  of  stars  and  light, 
The  sea  was  glassy  ;  the  glassy  brine 
Was  paven  with  lights,  —  blue,  crystal- 
line, 

And  emerald  keen  ;  the  dark  world  hung 
Balanced  under  the  moon,  and  swung 
In  a  net  of  silver  sparkles.     Then  she 
Rippled  her  yellow  hair  to  her  knee, 
Bared  her  warm  white  bosom  and  throat, 
And  from  the  lattice  leaned  athirst. 
There,  on  the  silence  did  she  gloat 
With  a  dizzy  pleasure  steeped  in  pain, 
Half  catching  the  soul  of  the  secret  that 

blended 
God  with  his  starlight,  then  feeling  it 

vain, 

Like  a  pining  poet  ready  to  burst 
With  the  weight   of  the   wonder   that 

grows  in  his  brain, 
Or  a  nightingale,  mute  at  the  sound  of 

a  lute 
That  is  swelling  and  breaking  his  heart 

with  its  strain, 
Waiting,    breathless,    to   die   when  the 

music  is  ended. 
For  the  sleek   and   beautiful   midnight 

stole, 

Like  a  faithless  friend,  her  secret  care, 
Crept  through  each  pore  to  the  source 

of  the  soul, 


And  mocked  at  the  anguish  which  he 

found  there, 
Shining  away   from  her,    scornful  and 

fail- 
In  his  pitiless  beauty,  refusing  to  share 
The  discontent  which  he  could  not  con- 
trol. 

The  water-rat,  as  he  skulked  in  the  moat, 
Set  all  the  slumbrous  lilies  afloat, 
And  sent  a  sharp  quick  pulse  along 
The  stagnant   light,    that   heaved  and 

swung 

The  leaves  together.     Suddenly 
At  times  a  shooting  star  would  spin 
Shell-like  out  of  heaven,  and  tumble  in, 
And  burst  o'er  a  city  of  stars  ;  but  she, 
As  he  dashed  on  the  back  of  the  zodiac, 
And  quivered  and  glowed  down  arc  and 

node, 

And  split  sparkling  into  infinity, 
Thought  that  some  angel,  in  his  reveries 
Thinking  of  earth,  as  he  pensively 
Leaned  over  the  star-grated  balcony 
In  his  palace  among  the  Pleiades, 
And  grieved  for  the  sorrow  he  saw  in 

the  land, 
Had  dropped  a  white  lily  from  his  loose 

hand. 

And  thus  many  a  night,  steeped  pale  in 

the  light 

Of  the  stars,  when  the  bells  and  clocks 
Had  ceased  in  the  towers,  and  the  sound 

of  the  hours 

Was  eddying  about  in  the  rocks, 
Deep-sunken   in    bristling  broidery   be- 
tween the  black  oak  Fiends  sat  she, 
And  under  the  moth-flitted  canopy 
Of  the  mighty  antique  bed  in  her  cham- 
ber, 

With  wild  eyes  drinking  up  the  sea, 
And  her  white  hands  heavy  with  jewelry, 
Flashing  as  she  loosed  languidly 
Her  satins  of  snow  and  of  amber. 
And  as,  fold  by  fold,  these  were  rippled 

and  rolled 
To  her  feet,  and  lay  huddled  in  ruins  of 

gold, 

She  looked  like  some  pale  spirit  above 
Earth's  dazzling  passions   forever  flung 

by. 

Freed  from  the  stains  of  an  earthly  love, 
And   those  splendid   shackles  of  pride 

that  press 
On  the  heart  till  it  acb.es  with  the  gof' 

geous  stress, 


THE   EARL'S   RETURN. 


Quitting  the  base  Past  remorsefully. 
And  so  she  put  by  the  coil  and  care 
Of  the  day  that  lay  furled  like  an  idle 

Writ 

Of  heaped  spots  which  a  bright  snake 

hath  left, 

Or  that  dark  house,  the  blind  worm's  lair, 
When  the  star-winged   moth  from  the 

windows  hath  nv]>t, 
Steeped  her  soul  in  ;i  tearful  prayer, 
Shrank  into  her  naked  self,  and  slept. 

And  as  she  slumbered,  starred  and  eyed 
Ail  over  with  angry  gems,  at  her  side, 
The  Fiends  in  the  oak  kept  ward  and 

watch  ; 
And  the  querulous  clock,  on  its  rusty 

catch, 

"With  a  quick  tick,  husky  and  thick, 
Clamored  and  clacked  at  her  sharply. 

There  was 

(Fronting  a  portrait  of  the  Earl) 
A  shrine  with  a  dim  green  lamp,  and  a 

cross 

Of  glowing  cedar  wreathed  with  pearl, 
Which  the  Arimathsean,  so  it  was  writ, 
When  he  came  from  the  holy  Orient, 
Had  worn,   with   his  prayers   embalm- 
ing it, 
As  with  the  San-Grael  through  the  world 

he  went. 

Underneath  were  relics  and  gems 
From  many  an  antique  king-saint's  crown, 
And    some  ('twas  avouched)  from  the 

dusk  diadems 

And  mighty  rings  of  those  Wise  Kings 
That  evermore   sleep   'mid   the  marble 

stems, 
Twixt  chancel  and  chalice  in  God  his 

palace, 

The  marvel  of  Cologne  Town. 
In  a  halo  dim  of  the  lamp  all  night 
Smiled  the  sad  Virgin,  holy  and  white, 
With  a  face  as  full  of  the  soul's  affliction 
As  one  that  had  looked  on  the  Crucifix- 


At   moonrise   the    land    was    suddenly 

brighter  ; 
And  through  all  its  length  and  breadth 

the  casement 
Grew   large   with   a    luminous    strange 

amazement, 
And,  as  doubting  in  dreams  what  that 

sudden  blaze  meant, 
The  Lady's  white  face  turned  a  thought 

whiter. 


Sometimes  in  sleep  light  finger-tips 
Touched  her  behind  ;  the  pain,  the  bliss 
Of  a  long  slow  despairing  kiss 
Doubled  the  heat  on  her  feverish  lip.-, 
And  down  to  her  heart's-heart  smoulder- 
ing burned  ; 

From  lips  long  mute  she  heard  her  riann  : 
Sad  dreams  and  sweet  to  vex  her  came  ; 
Sighing,  upon  her  pillow  she  turned, 
Like  a  weary  waif  on  a  weary  sea 
That  is  heaving  over  continually, 
And  h'nd.s  no  course,  until  for  its  sake 
The  heart  of  the  silence  begins  to  ache. 
Unsoothed  from  slumber  she  awoke 
An  hour  ere  dawn.     The  lamp  burned 

faint. 

The  Fiends  glared  at  her  out  of  the  oak. 
She  rose,  and  fell  at  the  shrine  of  the 

Saint. 

There  with  clasped  hands  to  the  Mother 
Of  many  sorrows,  in  sorrow,  she  prayed  ; 
Till  all  things  in  the  room  melted  into 

each  other, 

And  vanished  in  gyres  of  flickering  shade, 
Leaving  her  all  alone,  with  the  face 
Of  the  Saint  growing  large  in  its  one 

bright  place. 

Then  on  a  sudden,  from  far,  a  fear 
Through  all  her  heart  its  horror  drew, 
As  of  something  hideous  growing  near. 
Cold  fingers  seemed  roaming  through  her 

damp  hair ; 
Her   lips  were   locked.     The  power  of 

prayer 

Left  her.  She  dared  not  turn.  She  knew, 
From  his  panel  atilt  on  the  wall  up  there, 
The  grim  Earl  was  gazing  her  through 

and  through. 

But  when  the  casement,  a  grisly  square, 
Flickered  with  day,  she  flung  it  wide, 
And  looked  below.     The  shore  was  bare. 
In  the  mist  tumbled  the  dismal  tide. 
One  ghastly  pool  seemed  solid  white  ; 
The  forked  shadow  of  the  thorn 
Fell  through  it,  like  a  raven  rent 
In  the  steadfast  blank  down  which  it  went. 
The  blind  world  slowly  gathered  sight. 
The  sea  was  moaning  on  to  morn. 

And  the  Summer  into  the  Autumn 
wined. 

And  under  the  watery  Hyades 

The  gray  sea  swelled,  and  the  thick  sky 
rained, 

And  the  land  was  darkened  by  slow  de- 
grees, 


'THERE  WITH  CLASPED  HANDS  .  .  .  SHE  PRAYED."  —  Page  348. 


THE   EARL'S   RETURN. 


349 


But  oft,  in  the  low  West,  the  day 
Smouldering  sent  up  a  sullen  flame 
Along  the  dreary  waste  of  gray, 
As  though  in  that  red  region  lay, 
Heaped  up,  like    Autumn  weeds    and 

flowers 

For  fire,  its  thorny  fruitless  hours, 
And  God  said,  "burn  it  all  away  !  " 

When  all  was  dreariest  in  the  skies, 
And  the  gusty  tract  of  twilight  muttered, 
A  strange  slow  smile  grew  into  her  eyes, 
As  though  from  a  great  way  off  it  came 
And  was  weary  ere  down  to  her  lips  it 

fluttered, 

And  turned  into  a  sigh,  or  some  soft  name 
Whose  syllables  sounded  likest  sighs, 
Half  smothered   in  sorrow  before  they 

were  uttered. 

Sometimes,  at  night,  a  music  was  rolled — 
A  ripple  of  silver  harp-strings  cold  — 
From  the  halls  below  where  the  Minstrel 

sung, 
With  the  silver  hair,   and   the  golden 

tongue, 

And  the  eyes  of  passionless,  peaceful  blue 
(Like  twilight  which  faint  stars  gaze 

through), 

Wise  with  the  years  which  no  man  knew. 
4nd  first  the  music,  as  though  the  wings 
Of  some  blind  angel  were  caught  in  the 

strings, 

Fluttered  with  weak  endeavor  :  anon 
The  uncaged  heart  of  music  grew  bold 
And  cautiously  loosened,  length  by 

length, 

The  golden  cone  of  its  great  undertone, 
Like  a  strong  man  using  mild  language 

to  one 
That  is  weaker,  because  he  is  sure  of  his 

strength. 

But  once — and  it  was  at  the  fall  of  the  day, 
When  she,  if  she  closed  her  eyes,  did  seem 
To  be  wandering  far,  in  a  sort  of  dream, 
With  some  lost  shadow,  away,  away, 
Down  the  heart  of  a  golden  land  which 

she 

Remembered  a  great  way  over  the  sea, 
There  came  a  trample  of  horses  and  men  ; 
And  a  blowing  of  horns  at  the  Castle- 
Gate  ; 
Then  a  clattering  noise  ;  then  a  pause  ; 

and  then, 

With  the  sudden  jerk  of  a  heavy  weight, 
And  a  wrangling  and  jangling  and  clink- 
ing and  clanking, 


The  sound  of  the  falling  of  cable  and 

chain  ; 

And  a  grumbling  over  the  dewy  planking 
That  shrieked  and  sung  with  the  weight 

and  strain  ; 
And  the  rough  Seneschal  bawled  out  in 

the  hall, 
"  The  Earl  and  the  Devil  are  come  back 

again  ! " 

Her  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment  or  more. 
Then  suddenly  tugged,  and  strained,  and 

tore 
At  the  roots,  which  seemed  to  give  way 

beneath. 
She  rushed  to  the  window,  and  held  her 

breath. 
High  up  on  the  beach  were  the  long 

black  ships 
And  the  brown  sails  hung  from  the  masts 

in  strips ; 
And  the  surf  was  whirled  over  and  over 

them, 
And  swept  them  dripping  from  stern  to 

stem. 

Within,  in  the  great  square  court  below, 
Were  a  hundred  rough-faced  men,  or  so. 
And  one  or  two  pale  fair-haired  slaves 
Whom  the  Earl  had  brought  over  the 

winter  waves. 

There  was  a  wringing  of  horny  hands  ; 

And  a  swearing  of  oaths  ;  and  a  great 
deal  of  laughter ; 

The  grim  Earl  growling  his  hoarse  com- 
mands 

To  the  Warden  that  followed  him  growl- 
ing after  ; 

A  lowing  of  cattle  along  the  wet  sands  ; 

And  a  plashing  of  hoofs  on  the  slippery 
rafter, 

As  the  long-tailed  black-maned  horses 
each 

Went  over  the  bridge  from  the  gray  sea- 
beach. 

Then  quoth  the  grim  Earl,  "fetch  me  a 

stoop ! " 
And  they  brought  him  a  great  bowl  that 

dripped  from  the  brim, 
Which  he  seized  upon  with  a  satisfied 

whoop, 

Drained,  and  flung  at  the  head  of  him 
That  brought  it ;  then,  with  a  laugh  like 

a  howl, 
Stroked  his  beard ;  and  strode  in  through 

the  door  with  a  growl. 


350 


THE   EARL'S   RETURN. 


Meanwhile  the  pale  lady  grew  white  and 

whiter, 
As  the  poplar  pales  when  the  keen  winds 

smite  her  : 
And,  as  the  tree  sways  to  the  gust,  and 

heaves 
Quick   ripples   of  white   alarm   up  the 

leaves, 

So  did  she  seem  to  shrink  and  reel 
From  the  cu.setnent —  one   quiver  from 

head  to  heel 

Of  whitest  fear.     For  she  heard  below, 
On  the  creaking  stairway  loud  and  slow, 
Like  drops  that   plunge   audibly  down 

from  the  thunder 
Into  a  sea  that  is  groaning  under, 
The  heavy  foot  of  the  Earl  as  he  mounted 
Step  after  step  to  the  turret :  she  counted 
Step  after  step,  as  he  hastened  or  halted ; 
Now   clashing  shrill  through  the  arch- 
ways vaulted; 
Now  muffled  and  thick  :  now  loud,  and 

more 

Loud  as  he  came  near  the  Chamber  door. 
Then  there  fell,  with  a  rattle  and  shock, 
An  iron  glove  on  the  iron  lock, 
And  the  door  burst  open — the  Earl  burst 

through  it — 

But  she  saw  him  not.     The  window-pane, 
Far  off,  grew  large  and  small  again  ; 
The  staggering  light  did  wax  and  wane, 
Till  there  came  a  snap  of  the  heavy  brain  ; 
And  a  slow-subsiding  pulse  of  pain  ; 
And  the  whole  world  darkened  into  rest, 
As  the  giim  "Earl  pressed  to  his  grausome 

breast 

His  white  wife.     She  hung  heavy  there 
On  his  shoulder  without  breath, 
Darkly  filled  with  sleepy  death 
From  her  heart  up  to  her  eyes  ; 
Dead  asleep  :  and  ere  he  knew  it 
(How  Death  took  her  by  surprise 
Helpless  in  her  great  despair) 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair, 
He  kissed  her  icy  brows  ;  unwound 
His  rougharms,  and  she  fell  totheground. 

"The  woman  was  fa  irer  than  she  was  wise  : 
But  the  serpent  was  wiser  than  she  was 

fair  : 

For  the  serjient  was  lord  in  Paradise 
Or  ever  the  woman  came  there. 
But  when  Eden-gates  were  barred  amain, 
And  II'  -rd  on  yn/ird  in  the  East, 

Tin-  Umi  arose  from  a  long  repose, 
And  quoth  he,  as  he  shook  out  his  royal 

mane, 


'  Now  I  am  the  strongest  beast.' 

Had  the  woman  been  wiser  when  s!f  "  "t 

queen 

The  lion  had  never  been  king,  I  w>-rn. 
But  ever  since  storms  began  to  /<///•/,- 
Beauty  on  earth  hath  been  second  toJ'< 
And  this  is  the  song  that  the  Minstrel 

sung, 
With   the   silver   hair  and   the  golden 

tongue, 
Who  sung  by  night  in  the  grim  Earl's 

hall. 
And  they  held  him  in  reverence  one  and 

all. 

And  so  she  died,  —  the  pale-faced  girl. 
And,  for  nine  days  after  that,  the  Earl 
Fumed  and  fret,  and  raved  and  swore, 
Pacing  up  and  down  the  chamber-floor, 
And  tearing  his  black  beard  as  he  went, 
In  the  fit  of  his  sullen  discontent. 
And  the  Seneschal  said  it  was  fearful  to 

hear  him  ; 
And  not  even  the  weather-worn  Warden 

went  near  him  ; 
And  the   shock-headed   Pages  huddled 

an  ear, 
And  bit  their  white  lips  till  they  bled,  for 

fear. 

But  at  last  he  bade  them  lift  her  lightly, 

And  bury  her  by  the  gray  sea-shore, 

Where  the  winds  that  blew  from  her  own 
laud  nightly 

Might  wail  round  her  grave  through  the 
wild  rocks  hoar. 

So  they  lifted  her  lightly  at  dead  of  night, 

And  bore  her  down  by  the  long  torch- 
light, — 

Lank-haired  faces,  sallow  and  keen, 

That  burned  out  of  the  glassy  pools  be- 
tween 

The  splashing  sands  which,  as  they 
plunged  through, 

The  coffin-lead  weighed  them  down  into  ; 

And  their  feet,  as  they  plucked  them  up, 
left  pits 

Which  the  water  oozed  into  and  out  of 
by  fits  — 

— And  so  to  the  deep-mouthed  bay's 
black  brim, 

Where  the  pale  priests,  all  white-stoled 
and  dim, 

Lifted  the  cross  and  chanted  the  hymn, 

That  her  soul  might  have  peace  when 
her  bones  were  dust, 

And.  her  name  b^  written  among  the  Just, 


THE   EARL'S   RETURN. 


351 


The  Warden  walked  after  the  Seneschal 

grim  ; 
And   the    shock-headed    Pages   walked 

after  him  : 
And  with  mattock   and  spade  a  grave 

was  made, 
Where  they  carved  the  cross,  and  they 

wrote  her  name, 
And,  returning  each  by  the  way  that  he 

came, 
They  left  her  under  the  bare  black  thorn. 

The  salt  sea-  wind  sang  shrill  in  the  head 

of  it; 
And  the  bitter  night  grew  chill  with  the 

dread  of  it  ; 
When  the  great  round  moon  rose  up  for- 

lorn 
From  the  reefs,  and  whitened  towards 

the  morn. 
For  the  forked  tree,  as  the  bleak  blast 

took  it, 
Howled  through  it,  and  beat  it,  and  bit 

it,  and  shook  it, 
Like  a  living  thing  bewitched  and  be- 

deviled. 
Visibly    shrunk,    and    shuddered    and 

shrivelled. 

And  again  the  swallow,  that  false  new- 

coiner, 
Fluttered  over  the  sea  in  the  front  of  the 

summer  ; 

A  careless  singer,  as  he  should  be 
That  only  skimmeth  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Dipped  his  wings  as  he  came  and  went, 
And  chirruped  and  twittered  for  heart's 

content, 
And  built  on  the  new-made  grave.     But 

when 
The  Summer  was  over  he  flew  back  again. 

And  the  Earl,  as  years  went  by,  and  his 

life 

Grew  listless,  took  him  another  wife  : 
And  the  Seneschal  grim  and  the  Warden 


Walked  about  in  their  wonted  way  : 
And  the  lean-jawed  shock-haired  Pages 

too 

Sung  and  swilled  as  they  used  to  do. 
And  the  grooms  and  the  squires  gamed 

and  swore 
And  quarrelled  again  as  they  quarrelled 

before  ; 
And  the  flowers  decayed  in  their  dismal 

beds, 


And  dropped  off  from  their  lean  shanks 

one  by  one, 
Till  nothing  was  left  but  the  stalks  and 

the  heads, 
Clumped    into    heaps,    or    ripped   into 

shreds, 
To  steam  into  salt  in  the  sickly  sun. 

And  the  cattle  lowed  late  up  the  glim- 
mering plain, 

Or  dipped  knee-deep,  and  splashed  them- 
selves 

In  the  pools  spat  out  by  the  spiteful  main, 
Wallowing  in  sandy  dikes  and  delves  : 
And  the  blear-eyed  filmy  sea  did  boom 
With  his  old  mysterious  hungering  sound : 
And  the  wet  wind  wailed  in  the  chinks 

of  the  tomb, 
Till  the  weeds  in  the  surf  were  drenched 

and  drowned. 

But  once  a  stranger  came  over  the  wave, 
And  paused  by  the  pale-faced   Lady's 
grave. 

It  was  when,  just  about  to  set, 

A  sadness  held  the  sinking  sun. 

The  moon  delayed  to  shine  as  yet : 

The  Ave-Mary  chime  was  done  : 

And  from    the    bell  -  tower  leaned  the 

ringers  ; 

And  in  the  chancel  paused  the  singers, 
With  lingering  looks,  and  clasped  fingers : 
And  the  day  reluctantlytmnedto  his  rest, 
Like  some  untold  life,  that  leaves  exprest 
But  the  half  of  its  hungering  love  ere  it 

close  : 

So  he  went  sadly  toward  his  repose 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  slumbrous  waves 
Kindled  far  off  in  the  desolate  West. 
And  the  breeze  sprang  up  in  the  cool  sea- 
caves, 

The  castle  stood  with  jts  courts  in  shade, 
And  all  its  toothed  towers  imprest 
On    the    sorrowful    light    that    sunset 

made,  — 
Such  a  light  as  sleeps  shut  up  in  the 

breast 

Of  some  pining  crimson-hearted  rose, 
Which,   as  you  gaze  at  it,   grows  and 

grows 

And  all  the  warm  leaves  overflows  ; 
Leaving  its  sweet  source  still  to  be  guest. 
The  crumpled  shadow  of  the  thorn 
Crawled  over  the  sand-heaps  raggedly, 
And  over  the  gray  stone  cross  forlorn, 
And  on  to  that  one  man  musing  there 
Moveless,  while  o'er  him  the  night  crept  on, 


352 


TIIK    KARL'S   RETURN. 


And  the  hot  yellow  stars,  slowly,  one 

after  one, 

Mounted  into  the  dark  blue  air 
And  brightened,  and  brightened.     Then 

suddenly, 

And  sadly  and  silently, 
Down  the  dim  breezy  brink  of  the  sea 

sank  the  sun. 

Ere  the  moon  was  abroad,  the  owl 
Made  himself  heard  in  the  echoing  tower 
Three  times,  four  times.     The  bat  with 

his  cowl 

Came  and  went  round  the  lonely  Bower 
Where  dwelt  of  yore  the  Earl's  lost  Lady. 
There  night  after  night,  for  years,  in  vain 
The  lingering  moon  had  looked  through 

the  pane, 
And  missed  the  face  she  used  to  find 

there, 

White  and  wan  like  some  mountain  flower 
In  its  rocky  nook,  as  it  paled  and  pined 

there, 
Only  known  to  the  moon  and  the  wind 

there. 
Lights  flitted  faint  in  the  halls  down 

lower 
From  lattice  to  lattice,  and  then  glowed 

steady. 

The  dipping  gull  :   and  the  long  gray 

pool : 
And  the  reed  that  shows  which  way  the 

breeze  blows  cool,  • 

From  the  wide  warm  sea  to  the  low  black 

land  : 
And  the  wave  makes  no  sound  on  the 

soft  yellow  sand  : 

But  the  inland  shallows  sharp  and  small 
Are  swarmed  about  with  the  sultry 

midge. 

And  the  land  is  still,  and  the  ocean  still  : 
And  the  weeds  in  the  rifted  rocks  at  will 
Move  on  the  tide,  and  float  or  glide. 
And  into  the  silent  western  side 
Of  the  heaven  the  moon  begins  to  fall. 
But  is  it  the  fall  of  a  plover's  call 
That  is  answered  warily,  low  yet  shrill, 
From   the   sand-heapt  mound  and  the 

rocky  ridge  ? 
And  now  o'er  the  dark  plain  so  wild  and 

wide 
Falls  the  note  of  a  horn  from  the  old 

drawbridge. 

Who  is  it  that  waits  at  the  castle-gates  ? 
Call  in  the  minstrel,  and  fill  the  bowl. 


Bid  him  loose  the  great  music  and  let 

the  song  roll. 
Fill  the  bowl. 
And  first,  as  was  due,  to  the  Earl  he 

bowed : 
Next  to   all   the  Sea-chieftains,   blithe 

friends  of  the  Earl's  : 
Then  advanced  through  the  praise  of  the 

murmuring  crowd, 
And  sat  down,  as  they  bade  him,  and 

all  his  black  curls 
Bowed  over  his  harp,  as  in  doubt  which 

to  choose 
From  the  melodies  coiled  at  his  heart. 

For  a  man 
O'er  some  Beauty  asleep  for  one  moment 

might  muse, 
Half  in  love,  ere  he  woke  her.     So  ere 

he  began, 
He  .paused  over  his  song.     And  they 

brought  him,  the  Squires, 
A  heavy  gold  cup  with  the  red  wine  ripe 

in  it, 
Then  wave  over  wave  of  the  sweet  silver 

wires 
'Gan  ripple,  and  the  minstrel  took  heart 

to  begin  it. 

A  harper  that  harps  thorough  mountain 

and  glen, 
Wandering,  wandering  the  wide  world 

over, 

Sweetest  of  singers,  yet  saddest  of  men, 
His  soul's  lost  Lady  in  vain  to  discover. 
Most  fair  and  most  frail  of  the  daughters 

of  men, 
0  blest  and  0  curst,  the  man  that  should 

love  her ! 
Who  has  not  loved  ?  and  who  has  not 

lost? 

Wherever  he  wander,  the  wide  world  over, 
Singing  by  city,  and  castle,  and  plain, 
Abiding  never,  forever  a  rover, 
Each  man  that  shall  hear  him  will  swear 

almost 
In  the  minstrel's  song  that  his  heart    an 

discover 

The  self-same  lady  by  whom  it  was  crost, 
For  love  is  love  the  wide  world  over. 

What  shall  he  liken  his  love  unto  ? 
Have  you  seen  some  cloud  the  sun  sets 

through, 
When  the   lingering  night  is  close  at 

hand? 
Have  you  seen  some  rose  lie  on   the 

snow  ? 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


353 


Or  a  summer  bird  in  a  winter  land  ? 
Or  a  lily  dying  for  dearth  of  dew  ? 
Or  a  pearl  sea-cast  on  a  barren  strand  ? 
Some  garden  never  sunshine  warms 
Nor  any  tend  ?  some  lonely  tree 
That  stretches  bleak  its  barren  arms 
Turned  inland  from  the  blighting  sea  ? 
Her  cheek  was  pale  :  her  face  was  fair  : 
Her  heart,  he  sung,  was  weak  and  warm  ; 
All  golden  was  the  sleepy  hair 
That  floated  round  about  her  form, 
And  hid  the  sweetness  breathing  there. 
Her  eyes  were  wild,  like  stars  that  shine 
Far  off  in  summer  nights  divine  : 
But  her  smile  —  it  was  like  the  golden 

wine 

Poured  into  the  spirit,  as  into  a  cup, 
With  passion  brimming  it  up  and  up, 
And  marvellous  fancies  fair  and  fine. 
He  took  her  hair  to  make  sweet  strings  : 
He  hid  her  smile  deep  in  his  song. 
This  makes  so  rich  the  tune  he  sings 
That  o'er  the  world  't  will  linger  long. 

There  is  a  land  far,  far  away  from  yours. 
And  there  the  stars  are  thrice  as  bright 

as  these. 
And  there  the  nightingale  strange  music 

pours 

All  day  out  of  the  hearts  of  myrtle-trees. 
There  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  sounds 

never  forlorn 
As  you  hear  it  far  off  through  the  deep 

purple  valleys. 
And  the  fire-fly  dances  by  night  in  the 

•   corn. 
And  the  little  round  owls  in  the  long 

cypress  alleys 

Whoop  for  joy  when  the  moon  is  born. 
There  ripen  the  olive  and  the  tulip  tree, 
And  in  the  sun  broadens  the  green  prickly 

pear ; 
And  the  bright  galingales  in  the  grass 

you  may  see  ; 
And  the  vine,  with  her  royal  blue  globes, 

dwelleth  there, 

Climbing  and  hanging  deliciously 
By  every  doorway  and  lone  latticed  cham- 
ber, 
Where  the  damsel -fly  flits,  and  the  heavy 

brown  bee 
Hums  alone,  and  the  quick  lizards  rustle 

and  clamber. 
And  all  things,  there,  live  and  rejoice 

together, 
From  the  frail  peach-blossom  that  first 

appears 

23 


When  birds  are  about  in  the  blue  sum- 

mer  weather, 
To  the  oak  that  has  lived  through  his 

eight  hundred  years. 
And  the  castles  are  built  on  the  hills, 

not  the  plains. 
(And  the.  wild  wind-flowers  burn  about 

in  the  courts  there) 
They  are  white  and  undrenched  by  the 

gray  winter  rains. 
And  the  swallows,  and  all  things,  are 

blithe  at  their  sports  there. 
0  for  one  moment,  at  sunset,  to  stand 
Far,  far  away,  in  that  dear  distant  land 
Whence  they  bore  her,  —  the  loveliest 

lady  that  ever 
Crost  the  bleak  ocean.     0,  nevermore, 

never, 
Shall   she   stand  with  her  feet  in  the 

warm  dry  grasses 
Where   the   faint   balm-heaving    breeze 

heavily  passes 
And  the  white  lotus-flower  leans  lone  on 

the  river. 

Rare  were  the  gems  which  she  had  for 

her  dower. 
But  all  the  wild-flowers  she  left  behind 

her. 

—  A    broken    heart   and  a  rose-roofed 

bower. 

0  oft,  and  in  many  a  desolate  hour, 

The  cold  strange  faces  she  sees  shall  re- 
mind her 

Of  hearts  that  were  warmer,  and  smiles 
that  were  kinder, 

Lost,  like  the  roses  they  plucked  from 
her  bower  ! 

Lonely  and  far  from  her  own  land  they 
laid  her  ! 

—  A  swallow  flew  over  the  sea  to  find 

her. 
Ah  cold,  cold  and  narrow,  the  bed  that 

they  made  her  ! 
The  swallow  went  forth  with  the  summer 

to  find  her. 
The  summer  and  the  swallow  came  back 

o'er  the  sea, 
And  strange  were  the  tidings  the  bird 

brought  to  me. 

And  the  minstrel  sung,  and  they  praised 

and  listened,  — 
Gazed  and  praised   while   the  minstrel 

sung. 
Flusht  was  each  cheek,   and  each  fixt 

eye  glistened, 


354 


THE  EARL'S  RETURN. 


And  husht  was  each  voice  to  the  min- 
strel's tongue. 

But  the  Earl  grew  paler  more  and  more 
As  the  song  of  the  Singer  grew  louder 

and  clearer, 
And  so  dumb  was  the  hall,  you  might 

hc:ir  flic  roar 
Of  the  sea  in  its  pauses  grow  nearer  and 

drearer. 

And  .  .  .  hush  !  hush  !  hush  ! 
0  was  it  the  wind  ?  or  was  it  the  rush 
Of  the  restless  waters  that  tumble  and 

splash 
On  the  wild  sea-rocks  ?   or  was  it  the 

crash 

Of  stones  on  the  old  wet  bridge  up  there  ? 
Or  the  sound  of  the  tempest  come  over 

the  main  ? 

—  Nay,  but  just  now  the  night  was  fair. 
Was  it  the  march  of  the  midnight  rain 
Clattering  down  in  the  courts  ?  or  the 

crash 
Of  armor  yonder  ? .  .  .  Listen  again  ! 

Can  it  be  lightning? — can  it  be  thunder  ? 

For  a  light  is  all  round  the  lurid  hall 

That  reddens  and  reddens  the  windows 
all, 

And  far  away  you  may  hear  the  fall 

As  of  rafter  and  bowlder  splitting  asun- 
der. 

It  is  not  the  thunder,  and  it  is  not  the 
lightning 

To  which  the  castle  is  sounding  and 
brightening, 

But  something  worse  than  lightning  or 
thunder ; 

For  what  is  this  that  is  coming  yonder  ? 

Which  way  ?    Here  !     Where  ? 

Call  the  men  !  ...  Is  it  there  ? 

Call  them  out  !     Ring  the  bell ! 

Ring  the  Fiend  back  to  Hell  ! 

Ring,   ring  the  alarum  for  mercy  !  .  .  . 

Too  late  ! 
It  has  crawled  up  the  walls  —  it   has 

burst  in  the  gate  — 
It  looks  through  the  windows — it  creeps 

near  the  hall  — 

Near,  more  near  —  red  and  clear  — 
It  is  here  ! 
Now  the  saints  save  us  all  ! 

And  little,  in  truth,  boots  it  ringing  the 

bell. 
For  the  fire  is  loose  on  its  way  one  may 

tell 


By  the   hot   simmering    whispers    and 

humming  up  there 
In  llu-  oak-beams  and  rafters.     Now  one 

of  the  Squires 

His  elbow  hath  thrust  through  the  half- 
smouldered  door,  — 
Such  a  hole  as  some  rat  for  his  brown 

wife  might  bore,  — 

And  straightway  in  snaky,  white,  waver- 
ing spires 
The  thin   smoke   twirls    through,   and 

spread*  eddying  in  gyres 
Here  and  there  touch  t  with  vanishing 

tints  from  the  glare 
That  has  swathed  in  its  rose-light  the 

sharp  tuiret  stair. 
Soon  the  door  ruined  through  :  and  in 

tumbled  a  cloud 
Of  black  vapor.      And   first  't  was  all 

blackness,  and  then 
The  quick  forked  fires  leapt  out  from 

their  shroud 
In  the  blackness  :  and  through  it  rushed 

in  the  armed  men 
From  the  court-yard.     And  then  there 

was  Hying  and  fighting, 
And  praying  and  cursing,  —  confusion 

confounded. 
Each  man,  at  wild  hazard,  through  smoke 

ramparts  smiting, 
Has  struck  ...  is  it  friend  ?  is  it  foe  ? 

Who  is  wounded  ? 

But  the  Earl,  —  who  last  saw  him  ?   Who 

cares  ?  who  knows  ? 
Some  one,  no  doubt,  by  the  weight  of 

his  blows. 
And  they  all,  at  times,  heard  his  oath,  — 

so  they  swore  :  — 
Such  a  cry  as  some  speared  wild  beast 

might  give  vent  to 
When  the  lean  dogs  are  on  him,  and 

forth  with  that  roar 
Of    desolate    wrath,    the    life    is    sent 

too. 
If  he  die,  he  will  die  with  the  dying 

about  him, 
And  his  red  wet  sword  in  his  hand,  never 

doubt  him  : 
If  he  live,  perchance  he  will  bear  his  new 

bride 
Through  them  all,  past  the  bridge,  to 

the  wild  seaside. 
And  there,  whether  he  leave,  or  keep  his 

wife  still, 
There 's   the   free   sea  round  him,  new 

lands,  and  new  life  still. 


THE   EARL'S  RETURN. 


355 


And  .  .  .  but  ah,   the  red  light  there  ! 

And  high  up  and  higher 
The  soft,   warm,   vivid  sparkles  crowd 

kindling,  and  wander 
Far  away  down  the  breathless  blue  cone 

of  the  night. 
Saints  !  can  it  be  that  the  ships  are  on 

fire, 

Those  fierce  hot  clots  of  crimson  light, 
Brightening,  whitening  in  the  distance 

yonder  ? 

Slowly  over  the  slumbrous  dark 
Up  from  those,  fountains  of  fire  spark  on 

spark 
(You  might  count  them  almost)  floats 

silent :  and  clear 

In  the   steadfast  glow  the  great  cross- 
beams, 
And  the  sharp  and  delicate  masts  show 

black  ; 
While  wider  and  higher  the  red  light 

streams, 

And  oozes  and  overflows  at  the  back. 
Then  faint  through  the  distance  a  sound 

you  hear, 
And  the  bare  poles  totter  and  disappear. 

Of  the  Earl,  in  truth,  the  Seneschal  swore 
(And  over  the  ocean  this  tale  he  bore) 
That  when,  as  he  fled  on  that  last  wild 

night, 
He   had   gained  the  other  side  of  the 

moat, 
Dripping,  he  shook  off  his  wet  leathern 

coat, 

And  turning  round  beheld,  from  base- 
ment 

To  cope,  the  castle  swathed  in  light, 
And,  revealed  in  the  glare  through  My 

Lady's  casement, 
He  saw,  or  dreamed  he  saw,  this  sight  — 

Two  forms  (and  one  for  the  Earl's  he 
knew, 

By  the  long  shaggy  beard  and  the  broad 
back  too) 

Struggling,  grappling,  like  things  half 
human. 

The  other,  he  said,  he  but  vaguely  dis- 
tinguished, 

When  a  sound  like  the  shriek  of  an  ag- 
onized woman 

Made  him  shudder,  and  lo,  all  the  vision 
was  gone  ! 

Ceiling  and  floor  had  fallen  through, 

In  a  glut  of  vomited  flame  extinguished  ; 

And  the  still  fire  rose  and  broadened  on. 


How  fearful  a  thing  is  fire  ! 

You  might  make  up  your  mind  to  die  by 
water 

A  slow  cool  death,  —  nay,  at  times,  when 
weary 

Of  pains  that  pass  not,  and  pleasures  that 
pall, 

When  the  temples  throb,  and  the  heart 
is  dreary 

And  life  is  dried  up,  you  could  even  de- 
sire 

Through  the  flat  green  weeds  to  fall  and 
fall 

Half  asleep  down  the  green  light  under 
them  all, 

As  in  a  dream,  while  all  things  seem 

Wavering,  wavering,  to  feel  the  stream 

Wind,  and  gurgle,  and  sound  and  gleam. 

And  who  would  very  much  fear  to  expire 

By  steel,  in  the  front  of  victorious 
slaughter, 

The  blithe  battle  about  him,  and  com- 
rades in  call  ? 

But  to  die  by  fire  — 

0  that  night  in  the  hall ! 

And  the  castle  burned  from  base  to  top. 
You  had  thought  that  the  fire  would 

never  stop, 
For  it  roared  like  the  great  north-wind 

in  the  pines, 

And  shone  as  the  boreal  meteor  shines 
Watched  by  wild  hunters  in  shuddering 

bands, 

When  wolves  are  about  in  the  icy  lands. 
From  the  sea  you  might  mark  for  a  space 

of  three  days, 

Or  fainter  or  fiercer,  the  dull  red  blaze. 
And  when  this  ceased,  the  smoke  above  it 
Hung  so  heavy  not  even  the  wind  seemed 

to  move  it ; 
So  it  glared  and  groaned,  and  night  after 

night 
Smouldered,  —  a  terrible  beacon-light. 

Now  the  Earl'  s  old  minstrel,  —  he  that 

had  sung 
His  youth  out  in  those  halls,  —  the  man 

beloved, 
With  the   silver  hair  and   the  golden 

tongue, 
They  bore  him  out  from  the  fire  ;  but  he 

roved 

Back  to  the  stifled  courts  ;  and  there 
They  watched  him  hovering,  day  after 

day, 
To  and  fro,  with  his  long  white  hair 


356 


A   SOUL'S   LOSS. 


And  his  gold  harp,  chanting  a  lonely 

lay ; 

Chanting  ami  rhanging  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  the  mournful  mad  melodious  breath 
Of  some  wild  swan  singing  himself  to 

death, 
As  he  floats  down  a  strange  land  leagues 

away. 
One  day  the  song  ceased.     They  heard 

it  no  more. 

Did  you  ever  an  Alpine  eagle  see 
Come  down  from  (lying  near  the  sun 
To  find  his  eyrie  all  undone 
On  lonely  dill's  where  chance  hath  led 
Some  spying  thief  the  brood  to  plunder  ? 
How  hangs  he  desolate  overhead, 
And  circling  now  aloft,  now  under, 
His   ruined   home   screams  round  and 

round, 

Then  drops  flat  fluttering  to  the  ground. 
So  moaning  round  the  roofs  they  saw 

him, 
With  his  gleaming  harp  and  his  vesture 

white  : 

Going,  and  coming,  and  ever  returning 
To  those  chambers,  emptied  of  beauty 

and  state 
And  choked  with   blackness  and   ruin 

and  burning ; 


Then,  as  some  instinct  seemed  to  draw 

him, 

Like  hidden  hands,  down  to  his  fate, 
He   paused,    plunged,    dropped    forever 

from  sight ; 
And  a  cone  of  smoke  and  sparkles  rolled 

up, 
As  out  of  some  troubled  crater-cup. 

As  for  the  rest,  some  died  ;  some  fled 
Over  the  sea,  nor  ever  returned. 
But  until  to  the  living  return  the  dead, 
And  they  each  shall  stand  and  take  their 

station 

Again  at  the  last  great  conflagration, 
Never  more  will  be  seen  the  Earl  or  the 

stranger. 
No  doubt  there  is  much  here  that's  fit 

to  be  burned. 
Christ  save  us  all  in  that  day  from  the 

danger  ! 

And  this  is  why  these  fishermen  say, 
Sitting  alone  in  their  boats  on  the  bay, 
When  the  moon  is  low  in  the  wild  windy 

nights, 
They  hear  strange  sounds,  and  see  strange 

sights. 

Spectres  gathering  all  forlorn 
Underthe  boughsof  this  bare  blackthorn. 


A  SOUL'S  LOSS. 

'  If  Beauty  have  a  soul  this  is  not  she."  —  TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. 


-TwTXT  the  Future  and  the  Past 
There 's  a  moment.     It  is  o'er. 

Kiss  sad  hands  !  we  part  at  last. 
I  am  on  the  other  shore. 

Fly,  stern  Hour  !  and  hasten  fast. 
Nobler  things  are  gone  before. 

From  the  dark  of  dying  years 
Grows  a  face  with  violet  eyes, 

Tremulous  through  tender  tears,  — 
Warm  lips  heavy  with  rich  sighs,  — 

Ah,  they  fade  !  it  disappears, 

And  with  it  my  whole  heart  dies  ! 

Dies .  .  .  and  this  choked  world  is  sick- 
ening ; 
Truth  has  nowhere  room  for  breath. 


Crusts  of  falsehood,  slowly  thickening 
From  the  rottenness  beneath 

These  rank  social  forms,  are  quickening 
To  a  loathsome  life-in-death. 

0  those  devil's  market-places  ! 
Knowing,  nightly,  she  was  there, 

Can  I  marvel  that  the  traces 
On  her  spirit  are  not  fair  ? 

1  forgot  that  air  debases 

When  I  knew  she  breathed  such  air. 

This  a  fair  immortal  spirit 

For  which  God  prepared  his  spheres? 
What !  shall  this  the  stars  inherit  ? 

And  the  worth  of  honest  tears  ? 
A  fool's  fancy  all  its  merit ! 

A  fool's  judgment  all  its  fears  ! 


A  SOUL'S  LOSS. 


35? 


No,  she  loves  no  othet !     No, 
That  is  lost  which  she  gave  me. 

Is  this  comfort,  —  that  I  know 
All  her  spirit's  poverty  ? 

When  that  dry  soul  is  drained  low, 
His  who  wills  the  dregs  may  be  ! 

Peace  !     I  trust  a  heart  forlorn 
Weakly  upon  boisterous  speech. 

Pity  were  more  fit  than  scorn. 

Fingered  moth,  and  bloomless  peach  ! 

Gathered  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Set  to  fleer  in  all  men's  reach  ! 

I  am  clothed  with  her  disgrace. 

0  her  shame  is  made  my  own  ! 

0  I  reel  from  my  high  place  ! 
All  belief  is  overthrown. 

What !     This  whirligig  of  lace, 

This  the  Queen  that  1  have  known  ? 

Starry  Queen  that  did  confer 
Beauty  on  the  barren  earth  ! 

Woodlands,  wandered  oft  with  her 
In  her  sadness  and  her  mirth, 

Feeling  her  ripe  influence  stir 
Brought  the  violets  to  birth. 

The  great  golden  clouds  of  even, 
They,  too,  knew  her,  and  the  host 

Of  the  eternal  stars  in  heaven  ; 
And  I  deemed  I  knew  her  most. 

I,  to  whom  the  Word  was  given 
How  archangels  have  been  lost ! 

Given  in  vain  !  .  .  .   But  all  is  over  ! 

Every  spell  that  bound  me  broken  ! 
In  her  eyes  I  can  discover 

Of  that  perisht  soul  no  token. 

1  can  neither  hate  nor  love  her. 
All  my  loss  must  be  unspoken. 

Mourn  I  may,  that  from  her  features 

All  the  angel  light  is  gone. 
But  I  chide  not.     Human  creatures 

Are  not  angels.     She  was  none. 
Women  have  so  many  natures  ! 

1  think  she  loved  me  well  with  one. 

All  is  not  with  love  departed. 

Life  remains,  though  toucht  with  scorn. 
Lonely,  but  not  broken-hearted. 

Nature  changes  not.     The  morn 
Breathes  not  sadder.     Buds  have  started 

To  white  clusters  on  the  thorn. 


And  to-morrow  I  shall  see 

How  the  leaves  their  green  silk  sheath 
Have  burst  upon  the  chestnut-tree. 

And  the  white  rose-bush  beneath 
My  lattice  which,  once  tending,  she 

Made  thrice  sweeter  with  her  breath, 

Its  black  buds  through  moss  and  glue 
Will  swell  greener.     And  at  eve 

Winking  bats  will  waver  through 
The  gray  warmth  from  eave  to  eave, 

While  the  daisy  gathers  dew. 
These  things    grieve  not,   though   I 
grieve. 

What  of  that  ?    Deep  Nature's  gladness 
Does  not  help  this  grief  to  less. 

And  the  stars  will  show  no  sadness, 
And  the  flowers  no  heaviness, 

Though   each  thought  should  turn  to 

madness 
'Neath  the  strain  of  its  distress  ! 

No,  if  life  seem  lone  to  me, 

'T  is  scarce  lonelier  than  at  first. 

Lonely  natures  there  must  be. 
Eagles  are  so.     I  was  nurst 

Far  from  love  in  infancy  : 
I  have  sought  to  slake  my  thirst 

At  high  founts  ;  to  fly  alone, 

Haunt  the  heaven,  and  soar,  and  sing. 
Earth's  warm  joys  I  have  not  known. 

This  one  heart  held  everything. 
Now  my  eyrie  is  o'erthrown  ! 

As  of  old,  I  spread  the  wing, 

And  rise  up  to  meet  my  fate 

With  a  yet  unbroken  will. 
When  Heaven  shut  up  Eden-gate, 

Man  was  given  the  earth  to  till. 
There 's  a  world  to  cultivate, 

And  a  solitude  to  fill. 

Welcome  man's  old  helpmate,  Toil ! 

How  may  this  heart's  hurt  be  healed  ? 
Crush  the  olive  into  oil ; 

Turn  the  ploughshare  ;  sow  the  field. 
All  are  tillers  of  the  soil. 

Each  some  harvest  hopes  to  yield. 

Shall  I  perish  with  the  whole 

Of  the  coming  years  in  view 
Unattempted  ?     To  the  soul 

Every  hour  brings  something  new. 
Still  suns  rise  :  still  ages  roll. 

Still  some  deed  is  left  to  dp. 


358 


THE   ARTIST. 


Some  .  .  .  but  what  ?  Small  matter  now  ! 

For  one  lily  for  her  hair, 
For  one  rose  to  wreathe  her  brow, 

For  one  gem  to  sparkle  there, 
1  had  .  .  .  words,  old  words,  I  know  ! 

What  was  I,  that  she  should  care 

How  I  differed  from  the  common 
Crowd  that  thrills  not  to  her  touch  ? 

How  1  deemed  her  more  than  human, 
And  had  died  to  crown  her  such  ? 

They  ?    To  them  she  is  mere  woman. 
O,  her  loss  and  mine  is  much  ! 

Fool,  she  haunts  me  still !     No  wonder  ! 

Not  a  bud  on  yon  black  bed, 
Not  a  swated  lily  yonder, 

But  recalls  some  fragrance  fled  ! 
Here,  what  marvel  I  should  ponder 

On  the  last  word  which  she  said  ? 

I  must  seek  some  other  place 

Where  free  Nature  knows  her  not : 

Where  I  shall  not  meet  her  face 
In  each  old  familiar  spot. 

There  is  comfort  left  in  space. 
Even  this  grief  may  be  forgot. 

Great  men  reach  dead  hands  unto  me 

From  the  graves  to  comfort  me. 
Shakspeare's  heart  is  throbbing  through 
me. 


All  man  has  been  man  may  be. 
Plato  speaks  like  one  that  knew  me. 
Life  is  made  Philosophy. 

Ah,  no,  no  !  while  yet  the  leaf 
Turns,  the  truth  upon  its  pall. 

By  the  stature  of  this  grief, 

Even  Shakespeare  shows  so  small  1 

Plato  palters  with  relief. 
Grief  is  greater  than  them  all ! 

They  were  pedants  who  could  speak. 

Grander  souls  have  past  unheard : 
Such  as  found  all  language  weak  ; 

Choosing  rather  to  record 
Secrets  before  Heaven  :  nor  break 

Faith  with  angels  by  a  word. 

And  Heaven  heeds  this  wretchedness 
Which  I  suffer.     Let  it  be. 

Would  that  I  could  love  thee  less  ! 
I,  too,  am  dragged  down  by  thee. 

Thine  —  in  weakness  —  thine  —  ah  yes 
Yet  farewell  eternally. 

Child,  I  have  no  lips  to  chide  thee. 

Take  the  blessing  of  a  heart 
(Never  more  to  beat  beside  thee  !) 

Which  in  blessing  breaks.     Depart. 
Farewell.     I  that  deified  thee 

Dare  not  question  what  thou  art. 


THE  AETIST. 


0  ARTIST,  range  not  over- wide : 
Lest  what  thou  seek  be  haply  hid 

In  bramble-blossoms  at  thy  side, 
Or  shut  within  the  daisy-lid. 

God's  glory  lies  not  out  of  reach. 

The  moss  we  crush  beneath  our  feet, 
The  pebbles  on  the  wet  sea-beach, 

Have   solemn  meanings   strange  and 
sweet. 

The  peasant  at  his  cottage  door 

May  teach  thee  more  than  Plato  knew : 

See  that  thou  scorn  him  not :  adore 
God  in  him,  and  thy  nature  too. 


Know  well  thy  friends.     The  woodbine's 
breath, 

The  woolly  tendril  on  the  vine, 
Are  more  to  thee  than  Cato's  death, 

Or  Cicero's  words  to  Catiline. 

The  wild  rose  is  thy  next  in  blood  : 
Share  Nature  with  her,  and  thy  heart. 

The  kingcups  are  thy  sisterhood  : 
Consult  them  duly  on  thine  art. 

Nor  cross  the  sea  for  gems.     Nor  ser!:  : 
Be  sought.     Fear  not  to  dwell  alone. 

Possess  thyself.     Be  proudly  meek. 
See  thou  be  worthy  to  be  known. 


THE  ARTIST. 


359 


The  Genius  on  thy  daily  ways 

Shall  meet,  and  take  thee  by  the  hand  : 
But  serve  him  not  a"*s  who  obeys  : 

He  is  thy  slave  if  thou  command  : 

And  blossoms  on  the  blackberry-stalks 
He  shall  enchant  as  thou  dost  pass, 

Till  they  drop  gold  upon  thy  walks, 
And  diamonds  in  the  dewy  grass. 

Such  largess  of  the  liberal  bowers 
From  left  to  right  is  grandly  flung, 

What  time  their  subject   blooms  and 

flowers 
King-Poets  walk  in  state  among. 

Be  quiet.     Take  things  as  they  come  ; 

Each  hour  will  draw  out  some  surprise. 
With  blessing  let  the  days  go  home  : 

Thou  shalt  have  thanks  from  evening 
skies. 

Lean  not  on  one  mind  constantly : 
Lest,  where  one  stood  before,  two  fall. 

Something  God  hath  to  say  to  thee 
Worth  hearing  from  the  lips  of  all. 

All  things  are  thine  estate  :  yet  must 
Thou  first  display  the  title-deeds, 

And  sue  the  world.     Be  strong :  and  trust 
High  instincts  more  than  all  the  creeds. 

The  world  of  Thought  is  packed  so  tight, 
If  thou  stand  up  another  tumbles  : 

Heed  it  not,  though  thou  have  to  fight 
With  giants  ;  whoso  follows  stumbles. 

Assert  thyself :  and  by  and  by 

The  world  will  come  and  lean  on  thee. 

But  seek  not  praise  of  men  :  thereby 
Shall  false  shows  cheat  thee.     Boldly 
be. 

Each  man  was  worthy  at  the  first : 
God  spake  to  us  ere  we  were  born  : 

But  we  forget.  The  land  is  curst : 
We  plant  the  brier,  reap  the  thorn. 

Remember,  eveiy  man  He  made 
Is  different :  has  some  deed  to  do, 

Some  work  to  work.     Be  undismayed, 
Though  thine  be  humble  :  do  it  too. 

Not  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools 

Is  wise  for  thee.     Hast  thou  to  speak  ? 

No  man  hath  spoken  for  thee.     Rules 
Are  well :  but  never  fear  to  break 


The  scaffolding  of  other  souls  : 

It  was  not  meant  for  thee  to  mount ; 

Though  it  may   serve    thee.     Separate 

wholes 
Make  up  the  sum  of  God's  account. 

Earth's  number-scale  is  near  us  set ; 

The  total  God  alone  can  see  ; 
But  each  some  fraction  :  shall  I  fret 

If  you  see  Four  where  I  saw  Three  ? 

A  unit's  loss  the  sum  would  mar  ; 

Therefore  if  I  have  One  or  Two, 
I  am  as  rich  as  others  are, 

And  help  the  whole  as  well  as  you. 

This  wild  white  rosebud  in  my  hand 
Hath  meanings  meant  for  me  alone, 

Which  no  one  else  can  understand  : 
To  you  it  breathes  with  altered  tone  : 

How  shall  I  class  its  properties 
For  you  ?  or  its  wise  whisperings 

Interpret  ?     Other  ears  and  eyes 
It  teaches  many  other  things. 

We  number  daisies,  fringe  and  star  : 
We    count    the    cinqfoUs    and    the 
poppies  : 

We  know  not  what  they  mean.     We  are 
Degenerate  copyists  of  copies. 

We  go  to  Nature,  not  as  lords, 

But  servants  :  and  she  treats  us  thus  : 

Speaks  to  us  with  indifferent  words, 
And  from  a  distance  looks  at  us. 

Let  us  go  boldly,  as  we  ought, 
And  say  to  her,  ' '  We  are  a  part 

Of  that  supreme  original  Thought 
Which  did  conceive  thee  what  thou  art : 

"  We  will  not  have  this  lofty  look  : 
Thou  shalt  fall  down,  and  recognize 

Thy  kings  :  we  will  write  in  thy  book, 
Command  thee  with  our  eyes." 

She  hath  usurpt  us.  She  should  be 
Our  model ;  but  we  have  become 

Her  miniature-painters.     So  when  we 
Entreat  her  softly  she  is  dumb. 

Nor  serve  the  subject  overmuch  : 

Nor  rhythm  and  rhyme,  nor  color  and 
form. 

Know  Truth  hath  all  great  graces,  such 
As  shall  with  these  thy  work  inform. 


360 


THE    AIM1 1ST. 


We  ransack  History's  tattered  page  : 
We  prate  of  epoch  and  costume  : 

Call  this,  and  that,  tin-  »'las.-ie  Age: 
Choose  tunic  now,  uowhelmaud  plume: 

But  while  we  halt  in  weak  debate 
Twixt  that  andthis  tppropriatetbeme, 

The  offended  wild-Ilowers  stare  and  wait, 
The  bird  hoots  at  us  from  the  stream. 

Next,  as  to  laws.  What  's  beautiful 
We  recognize  in  form  and  face  : 

And  judge  it  thus,  and  thus,  by  rule, 
As  perfect  law  brings  perfect  grace  : 

If  through  the  effect  we  drag  the  cause, 

Dissect,  divide,  anatomize, 
Results  are  lost  in  loathsome  laws, 

And  all  the  ancient  beauty  dies  : 

Till  we,  instead  of  bloom  and  light, 
See  only  sinews,  nerves,  and  veins  : 

Nor  will  the  effect  and  cause  unite, 
For  one  is  lost  if  one  remains  : 

But  from  some  higher  point  behold 
This  dense,  perplexing  complication  ; 

And  laws  involved  in  laws  unfold. 
And  orb  into  thy  contemplation. 

God,  when  he  made  the  seed,  conceived 
The  flower  ;  and  all  the  work  of  sun 

And  rain,  before  the  stem  was  leaved, 
In  that  prenatal  thought  was  done  ; 

The  girl  who  twines  in  her  soft  hair 
The  orange-flower,  with  love's  devotion, 

By  the  mere  act  of  being  fair 

Sets  countless  laws  of  life  in  motion  ; 

So  thou,  by  one  thoiightthoroughlygreat, 
Shalt,  without  heed  thereto,  fulfil 

All  laws  of  art.     Create  !  create  ! 
Dissection  leaves  the  dead  dead  still. 

All  Sciences  are  branches,  each, 

Of  that  first  science, — Wisdom.     Seize 
The  true  point  whence,  if  thou  shouldst 

reach 

•  Thine  arm  out,  thou  may'st  grasp  all 
these, 

And  close  all  knowledge  in  thy  palm. 

As  History  proves  Philosophy  : 
Philosophy,  with  warnings  calm, 

Prophet-like,  guiding  History. 

Burn  catalogues.   Write  thine  own  books. 
Whatneedtoporeo'erGreeceandRome?  I 


When  whoso  through  his  own  life  looks 
Shall  find  that  he  is  fully  come, 

Through  Greece  and  Rome,  and  Middle. 
Age: 

Hath  been  by  turns,  ere  yet  full-grown, 
Soldier,  and  Senator,  and  Sage, 

And  worn  the  tunic  and  the  gown. 


Cut  the  world  thoroughly  to  th 
The  sweet  and  bitter  kernel  crack. 

Have  no  half-dealings  with  thine  art, 
All  heaven  is  waiting  :  turn  not  back. 

If  all  the  world  for  thee  and  me 
One  solitary  shape  possessed, 

What  shall  I  say  ?  a  single  tree  — 
Whereby  to  type  and  hint  the  rest, 

And  I  could  imitate  the  bark 

And  foliage,  both  in  form  and  hue, 

Or  silvery-gray,  or  brown  and  dark, 
Or  rough  with  moss,  or  wet  with  dew, 

But  thou,  with  one  form  in  thine  eve, 
Couldst  penetrate  all  forms  :  possess 

The  soul  of  form  :  and  multiply 
A  million  like  it,  more  or  less,  — 

Which  were  the  Artist  of  us  twain  ? 

The  moral  's  clear  to  understand. 
Where'er  we  walk,  by  hill  or  plain, 

Is  there  no  mystery  on  the  land  ? 

The  osiered,  oozy  water,  raffled 

By  fluttering  swifts  that  dip  and  wink  : 

Deep  cattle  in  the  cowslips  muffled, 
Or  lazy-eyed  upon  the  brink  : 

Or,  when  —  a  scroll  of  stars  —  the  night 
(By  God  withdrawn)  is  rolled  away, 

The  silent  sun,  on  some  cold  height, 
Breaking  the  great  seal  of  the  day  : 

Are  these  not  words  more  rich  than  ours  ? 

0  sei/e  their  import  if  you  can  ! 
Our  souls   are    parched    like  withering 
flowers, 

Our  knowledge  ends  where  it  began. 

While  yet  about  us  fall  God's  dews, 
And  whisper  secrets  o'er  the  earth 

Worth  all  the  weary  years  we  lose 
In  learning  legends  of  our  birth, 

Arise,  0  Artist  !  and  restore 

Their  music  to  the  moaning  winds, 

Love's  broken  pearls  to  life's  bare  shore, 
And  freshness  to  our  fainting  minds. 


THE  WIFE'S  TKAGEDY. 


361 


THE  WIFE'S  TKAGEDY. 


THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE 
FLIGHT. 

TAKE  the  diamonds  from  my  hair  ! 

Take  the  flowers  from  the  urn  ! 
Fling  the  lattice  wide  !  more  air  ! 

Air  —  more  air,  or  else  I  burn  ! 

Put  the  bracelets  by.     And  thrust 
Out  of  sight  these  hated  pearls. 

I  could  trample  them  to  dust, 
Though  they  were  his  gift,  the  Earl's  ! 

Flusht  I  am  ?    The  dance  it  was. 

Only  that.     Now  leave  me,  Sweet. 
Take  the  flowers,  Love,  because 

They  will  wither  in  this  heat. 

Good  night,  dearest  !     Leave  the  door 

Half-way  open  as  you  go. 
—  0,  thank  God  ?  .  .  .  Alone  once  more. 

Am  I  dreaming  ?  .  .  .  Dreaming  ?  .  .  . 
no  ! 

Still  that  music  underneath 
Works  to  madness  in  my  brain. 

Even  the  roses  seem  to  breathe 
Poisoned  perfumes,  full  of  pain. 

Let  me  think  .  .  .  my  head  is  aching. 

I  have  little  strength  to  think. 
And  I  know  my  heart  is  breaking. 

Yet,  0  love,  I  will  not  shrink  ! 

In  his  look  was  such  sweet  sadness. 

And  he  fixed  that  look  on  me. 
I  was  helpless  .  .  .  call  it  madness, 

Call  it  guilt  .  .  .  but  it  must  be. 

I  can  bear  it,  if,  in  losing 
All  things  else,  I  lose  him  not. 

All  the  giief  is  my  own  choosing. 
Can  I  murmur  at  my  lot  ? 

Ah,  the  night  is  bright  and  still 

Over  all  the  fields  I  know. 
And  the  chestnuts  on  the  hill : 

And  the  quiet  lake  below. 

By  that  lake  I  yet  remember 

How,  last  year,  we  stood  together 


One  wild  eve  in  warm  September 
Bright  with  thunder  :  not  a  feather 

Stirred  the  slumbrous  swans  that  floated 
Past  the  reed-beds,  husht  and  white  ' 

Towers  of  sultry  cloud  hung  moated 
In  the  lake's  unshaken,  light : 

Far  behind  us  all  the  extensive 
Woodland  blackened  against  heaven  : 

And  we  spoke  not :  —  pausing  pensive  . 
Till  the  thunder-cloud  was  riven, 

And  the  black  wood  whitened  under, 
And  the*  storm  began  to  roll, 

And  the  love  laid  up  like  thunder 
Burst  at  once  upon  my  soul. 

There  !  .  .  .  the  moon  is  jxist  in  crescent 

In  the  silent  happy  sky. 
And  to-night  the  meanest  peasant 

In  her  light 's  more  blest  than  I. 

Other  moons  I  soon  shall  see 
Over  Asian  headlands  green  : 

Ocean-spaces  sparkling  free 

Isles  of  breathless  balm  between. 

And  the  rosy-rising  star 

At  the  setting  of  the  day 
From  the  distant  sandy  bar 

Shining  over  Africa  : 

Steering  through  the  glowing  weather 
Past  the  tracks  of  crimson  light, 

Down  the  sunset  lost  together 
Far  athwart  the  summer  night. 

"  Canst  thou  make  such  life  thy  choice, 
My  heart's  own,  my  chosen  one?" 

So  he  whispered  and  his  voice 
Had  such  magic  in  its  tone  ! 

But  one  hour  ago  we  parted. 

And  we  meet  again  to-morrow. 
Parted  —  silent,  and  sad-hearted  : 

And  we  meet  —  in  guilt  and  sorrow. 

But  we  shall  meet .  .  .  meet,  0  God, 
To  part  never  .  .  .  the  last  time  ! 

Yes  !  the  Ordeal  shall  be  trod. 

Burning     ploughshares  —  love     and 


THE  Wii-'K's  Tl;.\(.r.l>Y. 


0  with  him,  with  him  to  wander 
Through  the  wide  world  —  only  his  ! 

Heart  and  hope  and  heaven  to  squander 
On  the  wild  wealth  of  his  kiss  ! 

Then  ?  .  .  .  like  these  poor  flowers  that 
wither 

In  my  bosom,  to  be  thrown 
Lightly  from  him  any  whither 

When  the  sweetness  all  is  flown  ? 

0,  I  know  it  all,  my  fate  ! 

But  the  gulf  is  crost  forever. 
And  regret  is  born  too  late. 

The  shut  Past  reopens  never. 

Fear  ? .  .  .  I  cannot  fear  !  for  fear 
Dies  with  hope  in  every  breast. 

0,  I  see  the  frozen  sneer,       «^ 
Careless  smile,  and  callous  jest ! 

But  my  shame  shall  yet  be  worn 
Like  the  purple  of  a  Queen. 

1  can  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
Fool !  I  know  not  what  I  mean. 

Yet  beneath  his  smile  (his  smile  !) 
Smiles  less  kind  I  shall  not  see. 

Let  the  whole  wide  world  revile. 
He  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

So  to-night  all  hopes,  all  fears, 
All  the  bright  and  brief  array 

Of  my  lost  youth's  happier  years, 
With  these  gems  I  put  away. 

Gone  ! ...  so ...  one  by  one ...  all  gone  ! 

Not  one  jewel  1  retain 
Of  my  life's  wealth.     All  alone 

I  tread  boldly  o'er  my  pain 

On  to  him  .  .  .  Ah,  me  !  my  child  — 
My  own  fair-haired,  darling  boy  ! 

In  his  sleep  just  now  he  smiled. 
All  his  dreams  are  dreams  of  joy. 

How  those  soft  long  lashes  shade 
That  young  cheek  so  husht  and  warm, 

Like  a  half-blown  rosebud  laid 
On  the  little  dimpled  arm  ! 

He  will  wake  without  a  mother. 

He  will  hate  me  when  he  hears 
From  the  cold  lip  of  another 

All  my  faults  in  after  years. 

None  will  tell  the  deep  devotion 
Wherewith  I  have  brooded  o'er 


His  young  life,  since  its  first  motion 
Made  me  hope  and  pray  once  more. 

On  my  breast  he  smiled  and  slept, 
Smiled  between  my  wrongs  and  me, 

Till  the  weak  warm  tears  I  wept 
Set  my  dry,  coiled  nature  free. 

Nay,  ...  my  feverish  kiss  would  wake 
him. 

How  can  I  dare  bless  his  sleep  ? 
They  will  change  him  soon,  and  make  him 

Like  themselves  that  never  weep  ; 

Fitted  to  the  world's  bad  part : 

Yet,  will  all  their  wealth  afford  him 

Aught  more  rich  than  this  lost  heart 
Whose  last  anguish  yearns  toward  him  ? 

Ah,  there 's  none  will  love  him  then 
As  I  love  that  leave  him  now  ! 

He  will  mix  with  selfish  men. 
Yes,  he  has  his  father's  brow  ! 

Lie  thou  there,  thou  poor  rose-blossom, 
In  that  little  hand  more  light 

Than  upon  this  restless  bosom,. 
Whose  last  gift  is  given  to-night. 

God  forgive  me  !  —  My  God,  cherish 
His  lone  motherless  infancy  ! 

Would  to-night  that  I  might  perish  ! 
But  heaven  will  not  let  me  die. 

O  love  !  love  !  but  this  is  bitter  ! 

0  that  we  had  never  met ! 
0  but  hate  than  love  were  fitter  ! 

And  he  too  may  hate  me  yet. 

Yet  to  him  have  I  not  given 

All  life's  sweetness  ?  .  .  .  fame  ?  and 

name  ? 
Hope  ?  and  happiness  ?  and  heaven  ? 

Can  he  hate  me  for  my  shame  ? 

"Child,"  he  said,  "thy  life  was  glad 
In  the  dawning  of  its  years  ; 

And  love's  morn  should  be  less  sad, 
For  his  eve  may  close  in  tears. 

"  Sweet  in  novel  lands,"  he  said, 
"  Day  by  day  to  share  delight ; 

On  by  soft  surprises  led, 
And  together  rest  at  night. 

"  We  will  see  the  shores  of  Greece, 
And  the  temples  of  the  Nile : 


THE    WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


363 


Sail  where  summer  suns  increase 
Toward  the  south  from  isle  to  isle. 

"  Track  the  first  star  that  swims  on 
Glowing  depths  toward  night  and  us, 

While  the  heats  of  sunset  crimson 
All  the  purple  Bosphorus. 

"  Leaning  o'er  some  dark  ship-side, 
Watch  the  wane  of  mighty  moons  ; 

Or  through  starlit  Venice  glide, 
Singing  down  the  blue  lagoons. 

"  So  from  coast  to  coast  we  '11  range, 

Growing  nearer  as  we  move 
On  our  charmed  way  ;  each  soft  change 

Only  deepening  changeless  love." 

'T  was  the  dream  which  I,  too,  dreamed 
Once,  long  since,  in  days  of  yore. 

Life's  long-faded  fancies  seemed 
At  his  words  to  bloom  once  more. 

The  old  hope,  the  wreckt  belief, 
The  lost  light  of  vanisht  years, 

Ere  my  heart  was  worn  with  grief, 
Or  my  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  ! 

When,  a  careless  girl,  I  clung 
With  proud  trust  to  my  own  powers  ; 

Ah,  long  since  I,  too,  was  young, 
I,  too,  dreamed  of  happier  hours  ! 

Whether  this  may  yet  be  so 
(Truth  or  dream)  I  cannot  tell. 

But  where'er  his  footsteps  go 
Turns  my  heart,  I  feel  too  well. 

Ha  !  the  long  night  wears  away. 

Yon  cold  drowsy  star  grows  dim. 
The  long-feared,  long-wisht-for  day 

Comes,  when  I  shall  fly  with  him. 

In  the  laurel  wakes  the  thrush. 

Through  these  dreaming  chambers  wide 
Not  a  sound  is  stirring.     Hush  ; 

—  0,  it  was  my  child  that  cried  ! 


II. 
THE  PORTRAIT. 

YES,  't  is  she  !     Those  eyes  !  that  hair 
With  the  self-same  wondrous  hue  I 

And  that  smile  —  which  was  so  fair, 
Is  it  strange  I  deemed  it  true  ? 


Years,  years,  years  I  have  not  drawn 
Back  this  curtain  !  there  she  stands 

By  the  terrace  on  the  lawn, 

With  the  white  rose  in  her  hands  : 

And  about  her  the  armorial 
Scutcheons  of  a  haughty  race, 

Graven  each  witL  its  memorial 
Of  the  old  Lords  of  the  Place. 

You,  who  do  profess  to  see 
In  the  face  the  written  mind, 

Look  in  that  face,  and  tell  me 
In  what  part  of  it  you  find 

All  the  falsehood,  and  the  wrong, 
And  the  sin,  which  must  have  been 

Hid  in  baleful  beauty  long, 
Like  the  worm  that  lurks  unseen 

In  the  shut  heart  of  the  flower. 

'T  is  the  Sex,  no  doubt !     And  still 
Some  may  lack  the  means,  the  power, 

There 's  not  one  that  lacks  the  will. 

Their  own  way  they  seek  the  Devil, 

Ever  prone  to  the  deceiver  ! 
If  too  deep  I  feel  this  evil 

And  this  shame,  may  God  forgive  her ! 

For  I  loved  her,  —  loved,  ay,  loved  her 
As  a  man  just  once  may  love. 

I  so  trusted,  so  approved  her, 
Set  her,  blindly,  so  above 

This  poor  world  which  was  about  her  ! 

And  (so  loving  her)  because, 
With  a  faith  too  high  to  doubt  her, 

I,  forsooth,  but  seldom  was 

At  her  feet  with  clamorous  praises 

And  protested  tenderness 
(These  things  some  men  can  do),  phrases 

On  her  face,  perhaps  her  dress, 

Or  the  flower  she  chose  to  braid 
In  her  hair,  —  because,  you  see, 

Thinking  love 's  best  proved  unsaid, 
And  by  words  the. dignity 

Of  true  feeling 's  often  lost, 

I  was  vowed  to  life's  broad  duty  ; 

Man's  great  business  uppermost 
In  my  mind,  not  woman's  beauty ; 

Toiling  still  to  win  for  her 
Honor,  fortune,  state  in  life. 


364 


THE   WIFE'S  TKAGZDY, 


("Too  much  with  the  Minister, 
And  too  little  \\ith  the  wife  ! ") 

Just  for  this,  she  filing  aside 

All  my  toil,  my  heart,  my  name; 

Trampled  on  my  ancient  pride, 
Turned  my  honor  into  shame. 

0,  if  this  old  coronet 

Weighed  too  hard  on  her  young  brow, 
>«"ec(l  she  thus  dishonor  it, 

Fling  it  in  the  dust  so  low  ? 

But  'tis  just  these  women's  way, — 
All  the  same  the  wide  world  over  ! 

Fooled  by  what 's  most  worthless,  they 
Cheat  in  turn  the  honest  lover. 

And  1  was  not,  I  thank  heaven, 

Made,  as  some,  to  read  them  through  ; 

"Were  life  three  times  longer  even, 
There  are  better  things  to  do. 

No  !  to  let  a  woman  lie 

Like  a  canker,  at  the  roots 
Of  a  man's  life,  —  burn  it  dry, 

Nip  the  blossom,  stunt  the  fruits, 

This  I  count  both  shame  and  thrall  ! 

Who  is  free  to  let  one  creature 
Come  between  himself,  and  all 

The  true  process  of  his  nature, 

While  across  the  world  the  nations 
Call  to  us  that  we  should  share 

In  their  griefs,  their  exultations  ?  — 
All  they  will  be,  all  they  are  ! 

And  so  much  yet  to  be  done,  — 

Wrong  to  root  out,  good  to  strengthen! 

Such  hard  battles  to  be  won  ! 

Such  long  glories  yet  to  lengthen  ! 

'Mid  all  these,  how  small  one  grief,  — 
One  wrecked  heart,  whose  hopes  are 
o'er  ! 

For  myself  I  scorn  relief. 
For  the  people  I  claim  more. 

Strange  !  these   crowds  whose,  instincts 
guide  them 

Fail  to  get  the  thing  they  would, 
Till  we  nobles  stand  beside  them, 

Give  our  names,  or  shed  our  blood. 

From  of  old  this  hath  been  so. 
For  we  too  were  with  the  first 


In  the  fight  fought  long  ago 

When  the  chain  of  Charles  was  burst. 

Who  but  we  set  Freedom's  border 
Wrenched  at  Runnymede  from  John  ? 

Who  but  we  stand,  towers  of  order, 
'Twixt  the  red  cap  and  the  Throne  ? 

And  they  wrong  us,  England's  Peers, 
Us,  the  vanguard  of  the  land, 

Who  should  say  the  march  of  years 
Makes   us   shrink    at   Truth's    right 
hand. 

'Mid  the  armies  of  Reform, 
To  the  People's  cause  allied, 

We  —  the  forces  of  the  storm  ! 
We  —  the  planets  of  the  tide  ! 

Do  I  seem  too  much  to  fret 

At  my  own  peculiar  woe  ? 
Would  to  heaven  I  could  forget 

How  I  loved  her  long  ago  ! 

As  a  father  loves  a  child, 

So  I  loved  her  :  —  rather  thus 

Than  as  youth  loves,  when  our  wild 
New-found  passions  master  us. 

And  —  for  I  was  proud  of  old 
(T  is  my  nature)  —  doubtless  she 

In  the  man  so  calm,  so  cold, 
All    the   heart's    warmth   could    not 


Nay,  I  blame  myself — nor  lightly, 
Whose  chief  duty  was  to  guide 

Her  young  careless  life  more  rightly 
Through  the  perils  at  her  side. 

Ah,  but  love  is  blind  !  and  I 

Loved  her  blindly,  blindly  !  .  .  .  Well, 
Who  that  ere  loved  trustfully 

Such  strange  danger  could  foretell  ? 

As  some  consecrated  cup 

On  its  saintly  shrine  secure, 
All  my  life  seemed  lifted  up 

On  that  heart  I  deemed  so  pure. 

Well,  for  me  there  yet  remains 

Labor  —  that 's  much :  then,  the  state : 

And,  what  pays  a  thousand  pains, 
Sense  of  right  and  scorn  of  fate. 

And,  0,  more  !  .  .  .  my  own  brave  boy, 
With  his  frank  and  eager  brow, 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


365 


And  his  hearty  innocent  joy. 
For  as  yet  he  does  not  know 

All  the  wrong  his  mother  did. 

Would  that  this  might  pass  unknown  ! 
For  his  young  years  God  forbid 

I  should  darken  by  my  own. 

Yet  this  must  come  .  .  .  But  I  mean 
He  shall  be,  as  time  moves  on, 

All  his  mother  might  have  been, 
Comfort,  counsel  —  both  in  one. 

Doubtless,  first,  in  that  which  moved  me 
Man's  strong  natural  wrath  had  part. 

Wronged  by  one  I  deemed  had  loved  me, 
For  I  loved  her  from  my  heart  ! 

But  that  's  past !     If  I  was  sore 
To  the  heart,  and  blind  with  shame, 

I  see  calmly  now.     Nay,  more,  — 
For  I  pity  where  I  blame. 

For,  if  he  betray  or  grieve  her, 
What  is  hers  to  turn  to  still  ? 

And  at  last,  when  he  shall  leave  her, 
As  at  last  he  surely  will, 

Where  shall  she  find  refuge  ?  what 
That  worst  widowhood  can  soothe  ? 

For  the  Past  consoles  her  not, 
Nor  the  memories  of  her  youth, 

Neither  that  which  in  the  dust 

She  hath  flung,  — •  the  name  she  bore  ; 

But  with  her  own  shame  she  must 
Dwell  forsaken  evermore. 

Nothing  left  but  years  of  anguish, 
And  remorse  but  not  return  : 

Of  her  own  self-hate  to  languish  : 
For  her  long-lost  peace  to  yearn  : 

Or,  yet  worse  beyond  all  measure, 

Starting  from  wild  reveries, 
Drain  the  poison  misnamed  Pleasure, 

And  laugh  drunken  on  the  lees. 

0  false  heart  !     0  woman,  woman, 
Woman  !  would  thy  treachery 

Had  been  less  !     For  surely  no  man 
Better  loved  than  I  loved  thee. 

We  must  never  meet  again. 

Even  shouldst  thou  repent  the  past. 
Both  must  suffer  :  both  feel  pain  : 

Ere  God  pardon  both  at  last. 


Farewell,  thou  false  face  !     Life  speeds 
me 

On  its  duties.     I  must  fight : 
I  must  toil.     The  People  needs  me  : 

And  I  speak  for  them  to-night. 


III. 
.THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 

THANKS,  Dear  !    Put  the  lamp  down  .  .  . 
so, 

For  my  eyes  are  weak  and  dim. 
How  the  shadows  come  and  go  ! 

Speak  truth,  —  have  they  sent  for  him  ? 

Yes,  thank  Heaven  !     And  he  will  come, 
Come  and  watch  my  dying  hour,  — 

Though  I  left  and  shamed  his  home. 
—  I  am  withered  like  this  flower 

Which  he  gave  me  long  ago. 

'T  was  upon  my  bridal  eve, 
When  I  swore  to  love  him  so 

As  a  wife  should  —  smile  or  grieve 

With  him,  for  him,  —  and  not  shrink. 

And  now  ?  .  .  .  0  the  long,  long  pain  ! 
See  this  sunken  cheek  !     You  think 

He  would  know  my  face  again  ? 

All  its  wretched  beauty  gone  ! 

Only  the  deep  care  survives. 
Ah,  could  years  of  grief  atone 

For  those  fatal  hours  !  ...  It  drives 

Past  the  pane,  the  bitter  blast ! 

In  this  garret  one  might  freeze. 
Hark  there  !  wheels  below  !     At  last 

He  is  come  then  ?    No  .  .  .  the  trees 

And  the  night-wind  —  nothing  more  ! 

Set  the  chair  for  him  to  sit, 
When  he  comes.     And  close  the  door, 

For  the  gust  blows  cold  through  it. 

When  I  think,  I  can  remember 
I  was  born  in  castle  halls,  — 

How  yon  dull  and  dying  ember 
Glares  against  the  whitewasht  walls  ! 

If  he  come  not  (but  you  said 
That  the  messenger  was  sent 

Long  since  ?)     Tell  him  when  I  'm  dead 
How  my  life's  last  hours  were  spent 


366 


THE  WIFES  TRAGEDY. 


In  repenting  that  life's  sin, 

And  .  .  .  the  room  grows  strangely 

dark! 
See,  the  rain  is  oozing  in. 

Set  the  lamp  down  nearer.     Hark, 

Footsteps,  footsteps  on  the  stairs  ! 

His  .  .  .  no,  no  !  't  was  not  the  wind. 
God,  I  know,  has  heard  my  prayers. 

We  shall  meet.     I  am  resigned. 

Prop  me  up  upon  the  pillows. 

Will  he  come  to  my  bedside  ? 
Once  't  was  his  .  .  .  Among  the  willows 

How  the  water  seems  to  glide  ! 

Past  the  woods,  the  farms,  the  towers, 
It  seems  gliding,  gliding  through. 

"  Dearest,  see,  these  young  June-flowers, 
I  have  pluckt  them  all  for  you, 

"Here,  where  passed  my  boyhood  imising 
On  the  bride  which  I  might  wed. " 

Ah,  it  goes  now  !     I  am  losing 
All  things.     What  was  that  he  said  ? 


Say, 


where    am  I  ? 
room  ? 


this   strange 


THE  EARL. 


Gertrude  ! 


GERTRUDE. 

Ah,  his  voice  !     I  knew  it. 
But  this  place  ? ...  Is  this  the  tomb, 
With  the  cold  dews  creeping  through 
it? 


Gertrude 


THE   EARL. 

Gertrude  ! 


GERTRUDE. 

Will  you  stand 

Near  me  ?    Sit  down.     Do  not  stir. 
Tell  me,  may  I  take  your  hand  ? 
Tell  me,  will  you  look  on  her 

Who  so  wronged  you  ?  I  have  wept 
0  such  tears  for  that  sin's  sake  ! 

And  that  thought  has  never  slept,  — 
But  it  lies  here,  like  a  snake, 

In  my  bosom,  —  gnawing,  gnawing 
All  my  life  up  !     I  had  meant, 


Could  I  live  yet . 
Near  me  — 


Death  is  drawing 


THE  EARL. 

God,  thy  punishment ! 
Dare  I  judge  her  ?  — 

GERTRUDE. 

0,  believe  me, 

'T  was  a  dream,  a  hideous  dream. 
And  I  wake  now.     Do  not  leave  me. 
I  am  dying.     All  things  seem 

Failing  from  me  —  even  my  breath  ! 

But  my  sentence  is  from  old. 
Sin  came  first  upon  me.     Death 

Follows  sin,  soon,  soon  !     Behold, 

Dying  thus  !  Ah,  why  didst  leave 
Lonely  Love's  lost  bridal  bowers 

Where  I  found  the  snake,  like  Eve, 
Unsuspected  'mid  the  flowers  ? 

Had  I  been  some  poor  man's  bride, 
I  had  shared  with  love  his  lot : 

Labored  truly  by  his  side, 
And  made  glad  his  lowly  cot. 

I  had  been  content  to  mate 
Love  with  labor's  sunburnt  brows. 

But  to  be  a  thing  of  state,  — 
Homeless  in  a  husband's  house  ! 

In  the  gorgeous  game  —  the  strife 
For  the  dazzling  prize  —  that  moved 

you  — 
Love  seemed  crowded  out  of  life  — 

THE  EARL. 

Ah  fool  !  and  I  loved  you,  loved  you  ! 

GERTRUDE. 
Yes.     I  see  it  all  at  last  — 

All  in  ruins.     I  can  dare 
To  gaze  down  o'er  my  lost  past 

From  these  heights  of  my  despair. 

0,  when  all  seemed  grown  most  drear — 
I  was  weak  —  I  cannot  tell  — 

But  the  serpent  in  my  ear 

Whispered,  whispered  —  and  I  felL 

Look  around,  now.     Does  it  cheer  you, 
This  strange  place  ?  the  wasted  frame 

Of  the  dying  woman  near  you, 
Weighed  into  her  grave  by  shame  T 


THE  WIFE'S  TRAGEDY. 


367 


Can  you  trace  in  this  wan  form 
Aught  resembling  that  young  girl's 

Whom  you  loved  once  ?     See,  this  arm  — 
Shrunken,  shrunken  !     And  my  curls, 

They  have  cut  them  all  away. 

And  my  brows  are  worn  with  woe. 
Would  you,  looking  at  me,  say, 

She  was  lovely  long  ago  ? 

Husband,  answer  !  in  all  these 
Are  you  not  avenged  ?     If  I 

Could  rise  now,  upon  my  knees, 
At  your  feet,  before  I  die, 

I  would  fall  down  in  my  sorrow 
And  my  shame,  and  say  "forgive," 

That  which  will  be  dust  to-morrow, 
This  weak  clay  ! 

THE   EARL. 

Poor  sufferer,  live. 
God  forgives.     Shall  I  not  so  ? 

GERTRUDE. 

Nay,  a  better  life,  in  truth, 
I  do  hope  for.     Not  below. 
Partner  of  my  perisht  youth, 

Husband,  wronged  one  !  Let  your  bless- 
ing 

Be  with  me,  before,  to-night, 
From  the  life  that 's  past  redressing 

This  strayed  soul  must  take  its  flight ! 

Tears,  warm  tears  !     I  feel  them  creep 
Down   my   cheek.      Tears  —  not   my 
own. 

It  is  long  since  I  could  weep. 
Past  all  tears  my  grief  hath  grown. 

Over  this  dry  withered  cheek, 
Drop  by  drop,  I  feel  them  fall. 

But  my  voice  is  growing  weak : 
And  I  have  not  spoken  all. 

I  had  much  to  say.  My  son, 

My  lost  child  that  never  knew  me  ! 

Is  he  like  me  ?  One  by  one, 
All  his  little  ways  come  to  me. 

Is  he  grown  ?     I  fancy  him  ! 

How  that  childish  face  comes  back 
O'er  my  memory  sweet  and  dim  ! 

And  his  long  hair  ?    Is  it  black  ? 


Or  as  mine  was  once  ?    His  mother 

Did  he  ever  ask  to  see  ? 
Has  he  grown  to  love  another  — 

Some  strange  woman  not  like  me  ? 

Would  he  shudder  to  behold 
This  pale  face  and  faded  form 

If  he  knew,  in  days  of  old, 

How  he  slumbered  on  my  arm  ? 

How  I  nurst  him  ?  loved  him  ?  missed 
him 

All  this  long  heartbroken  time  ? 
It  is  years  since  last  I  kissed  him. 

Does  he  hate  me  for  my  crime  ? 

I  had  meant  to  send  some  token  — 
If,  indeed,  I  dared  to  send  it. 

This  old  chain  —  the  links  are  broken  — 
Like  my  life  —  I  could  not  mend  it. 

Husband,  husband  !  I  am  dying, 
Dying  !  Let  me  feel  your  kiss 

On  my  brow  where  I  am  lying. 
You  are  great  enough  for  this  ! 

And  you  '11  lay  me,  when  I  'm  gone, 
—  Not  in  those  old  sculptured  walls  ! 

Let  no  name  be  carved  —  no  stone  — 
No  ancestral  funerals  ! 

In  some  little  grave  of  grass 
Anywhere,  you  '11  let  me  lie  : 

Where  the  night-winds  only  pass, 
Or  the  clouds  go  floating  by  ; 

Where  my  shame  may  be  forgot ; 

And  the  story  of  my  life 
And  my  sin  remembered  not. 

So  forget  the  faithless  wife  ; 

Or  if,  haply,  when  I  'm  dead, 
On  some  worthier  happier  breast 

Than  mine  was,  you  lean  your  head, 
Should  one  thought  of  me  molest 

Those  calm  hours,  recall  me  only 
As  you  see  me,  —  worn  with  tears  : 

Dying  desolate  here  ;  left  lonely 
By  the  overthrow  of  years. 

May  I  lay  my  arm,  then,  there  ? 

Does  it  not  seem  strange  to  you, 
This  old  hand  among  your  hair  ? 

And  these  wasted  fingers  too  ? 


368 


THE   WIIT.'S   T]!. \<;r.l>Y. 


How  the  lain])  wanrs  !     All  ^n>\vs  daik 
Dark  and  strange.       Yet   now   there 
sliiiifil 

Something  past  me  ...  Husband,  hark  ! 
There  are  voices  on  the  wind. 

Are  they  come  ?  and  do  they  ask  me 

For  the  songs  we  used  to  sing  ? 
Strange  that  memory  thus  should  task 

me! 
Listen  — 

Birds  are  on  the  wing : 

And  thy  Birthday  Morn  is  rising. 

May  it  ever  rise  as  bright ! 
Wake  not  yet !     The  day  Js  devising 

Fair  new  things  for  thy  delight. 

Wake  not  yet  I    Last  night  this  flower 
Near  thy  porch  began  to  pout 

From  Us  warm  sheath :  in  an  hour 
All  the  young  leaves  will  ty  out. 

Wake  not  yet !     So  dear  thou  art,  love, 
That  I  grudge  these  buds  the  bliss 

Each  will  bring  to  thy  young  heart,  love, 
I  would  claim  all  for  my  kiss. 

Wake  not  yet ! 

—  There  now,  it  fails  me  ! 

Is  my  lord  there  ?     I  am  ill. 
And  I  cannot  tell  what  ails  me. 

Husband  !     Is  he,  near  me  still  ? 

O,  this  anguish  seems  to  crush 
All  my  life  up,  —  body  and  mind  ! 

THE   EARL. 

Gertrude  !  Gertrude  !  Gertrude  ! 


GERTRUDE. 


There  are  voices  in  the  wind. 


Hush  ! 


THE  EARL. 

Still  she  wanders  !     Ah,  the  plucking 
At  the  sheet ! 

GERTRUDE. 

Hist !  do  not  take  it 
From  my  bosom.     See,  't  is  sucking  ! 
Jf  it  sleep  we  must  not  wake  it. 


Such  a  little  rosy  mouth  ! 

—  Not  to-night,  0  not  to-night ! 
Did  he  tell  me  in  the  South 

That  those  stars  were  twice  as  bright  1 

Off!  away!  unhand  me  —  go! 

I  forgive  thee  my  lost  heaven, 
And  the  wrong  which  thou  didst  do. 

Would  my  sin,  too,  were  forgiven  ! 

Gone  at  last !  .  .  .  Ah,  fancy  feigns 
These  wild  visions  !     I  grow  weak. 

Fast,  fast  dying  !     Life's  warmth  wanes 
From  me.     Is  the  fire  out  ? 


THE   EARL. 


Speak, 


Gertrude,  speak  !•  My  wife,  my  wife  ! 

Nay  she  is  not  dead,  —  not  dead  ! 
See,  the  lips  move.     There  is  life. 

She  is  choking.     Lift  her  head. 


GERTRUDE. 


Death  !  .  .  .   My  eyes  grow  dim,    and 
dimmer. 

I  can  scai'cely  see  thy  face. 
But  the  twilight  seems  to  glimmer, 

Lighted  from  some  distant  place. 


Husband  ! 


THE  EARL. 

Gertrude ! 


GERTRUDE. 

Art  thou  near  me  ? 
On    thy    breast  —  once    more  —  thy 

breast  ! 

I  have  sinned  —  and  —  nay,  yet  hear  me, 
And  repented  —  and  — 


THE   EARL. 


The  rest 


God  hath  heard,  where  now  thou  art, 
Thou  poor  soul,  —  in  Heaven. 

The  door  — 

Close  it  softly,  and  depart. 
Leave  us  ! 

She  is  mine  once  more. 


MINOR  POEMS. 


THE  PARTING  OF  LAUNCELOT 
AND  GUENEVERE. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

Now,  as  the  time  wore  by  to  Our  Lady's 

Day, 
Spring  lingered  in  the  chambers  of  the 

South. 

The  nightingales  were  far  in  fairy  lands 
Beyond  the  sunset :  but  the  wet  blue 

woods 

Were  half  aware  of  violets  in  the  wake 
Of  morning  rains.      The   swallow   still 

delayed 

To  build  and  be  about  in  noisy  roofs, 
And  March  was  moaning  in  the  windy 

elm. 

But  Arthur's  royal  purpose  held  to  keep 
A  joust  of  arms  to  solemnize  the  time 
In  stately  Camelot.     So  the  King  sent 

forth 
His  heralds,  and  let  cry  through  all  the 

land 
That  he  himself  would  take  the  lists, 

and  tilt 
Against  all  comers. 

Hither  came  the  chiefs 
Of  Christendom.     The  King  of  North- 

galies ; 
Anguishe,  the  King  of  Ireland ;  the  Haut 

Prince, 
Sir  Galahault ;  the  King  o'  the  Hundred 

Knights  ; 

The  Kings  of  Scotland  and  of  Brittany  ; 
And    many    more    renowned    knights 

whereof 
The  names  are  glorious.     Also  all   the 

earls, 
And  all  the  dukes,  and  all  the  mighty 

men 

And  famous  heroes  of  the  Table  Round, 
From  far  Northumberland  to  where  the 

wave 
Rides  rough  on  Devon  from  the  outer 

main.  . 

24 


«6o  that  there  was  not  seen  for  seven 

years, 

Since  when,  at  Whitsuntide,  Sir  Galahad 
Departed  out  of  Carlyel  from  the  court, 
So  fair  a  fellowship  of  goodly  knights. 

Then  would  King  Arthur  that  the  Queen 

should  ride 

With  him  from  Carlyel  to  Camelot 
To  see  the  jousts.     But  she,  because  that 

yet 
The  sicknes*  was  upon  her,  answered 

nay. 
Then  said  King  Arthur,  "This  repenteth 

me. 

For  never  hath  been  seen  for  seven  years, 
No,  not  since  Galahad,  at  Whitsuntide, 
Departed  from  us  out  of  Carlyel, 
So  fair  a  fellowship  of  goodly  knights." 
But  the  Queen  would  not,  and  the  King 

in  wrath 

Brake  up  the  court,  and  rode  to  Astolat 
On  this  side  Camelot. 

Now  men  said  the  Queen 
Tarried  behind  because  of  Launcelot, 
For  Launcelot  stayed  to  heal  him  of  his 

wound. 
And  there  had  been  estrangement  'twixt 

these  two 

I'  the  later  time,  because  of  bitter  words. 
So  when  the  King  with  all  his  fellowship 
Was  ridden  out  of  Carlyel,  the  Queen 
Arose,  and  called  to  her  Sir  Launcelot. 

Then  to  Sir  Launcelot  spoke  Queen 
Guenevere. 

"Not  for  the  memory  of  that  love 
whereof 

No  more  than  memory  lives,  but,  Sir, 
for  that 

Which  even  when  love  is  ended  yet  en- 
dures 

Making  immortal  life  with  deathless 
deeds, 

Honor —  true  knighthood's  golden  spurs, 
the  crown 


370 


THE  PARTING    OF    LAUNCELOT   AND  GUENEVERE. 


AndpricelessdiailemofpeerlessQueens, — 
I  make  appeal  to  you,  that  hear  perchance 
The  last  appeal  which  I  shall  ever  make. 
So  weigh  my  words  not  lightly  !  for  I  feel 
The  fluttering  fires  of  life  grow  faint  and 

cold 
About  my  heart.     And  oft,  indeed,  to 

me    . 
Lying  whole  hours  awake  in  the  dead 

nights 

The  end  seems  near,  as  though  the  dark- 
ness knew 

The  angel  waiting  there  to  call  my  soul 
Perchance  before  the  house  awakes  ;  and 

oft 
When  faint,   and  all  at  once,  from  far 

away, 
The  mournful   midnight  bells  begin  to 

sound 

Across  the  river,  all  the  days  that  were 
(Brief,  evil  days  !)  return  upon  my  heart, 
And,  where  the  sweetness  seemed,  I  see 

the  sin. 
For,  waking  lone,  long  hours  before  the 

dawn, 

Beyond  the  borders  of  the  dark  I  seem 
To  see  the  twilight  of  another  world, 
That  grows  and  grows  and  glimmers  on 

my  gaze. 

And  oft,  when  late,  before  the  languor- 
ous moon 
Through   yonder  windows  to  the  West 

goes  down 
Among  the  pines,  deep  peace  upon  me 

falls, 
Deep  peace  like  death,  so  that  I  think  I 

know 
The    blessed    Mary  and  the  righteous 

saints 
Stand  at  the  throne,  and  intercede  for 

me. 

Wherefore  these  things  are  thus  I  can- 
not tell. 

But  now  I  pray  you  of  your  fealty, 
And  by  all  knightly  faith  which  may  be 

left, 
Arise  and  get  you  hence,  and  join  the 

King. 
For  wherefore  hold  you  thus  behind  the 

court, 
Seeing  my  liege  the  King  is  moved  in 

wrath? 
For  wete  you  well  what  say  your  foes  and 

mine. 
'See    how   Sir    Launcelot    and    Queen 

Guenevere 
Do  hold  them  ever  thus  behind  the  King 


That   they  may   take  their  pleasure  ! 

Knowing  not 
How  that  for  me  all  these  delights  are 

come 
To  be  as  withered  violets." 

Half  in  tears 
Sh#  ceased  abrupt.     Given  up  to  a  proud 

grief, 
Vexed  to  be  vext.     With  love  and  anger 

moved. 
Love    toucht    with    scorn,    and    anger 

pierced  with  love. 

About  her,  all  unheeded,  her  long  hair 
Loosed  its  warm,  yellow,  waving  loveli- 
ness, 
And  o'er  her  bare  and  shining  shoulder 

cold 
Fell  floating  free.     Upon  one  full  white 

arm, 

To  which  the  amorous  purple  coverlet 
Clung  dimpling  close,  her  drooping  state 

was  propt. 
There,  half  in  shadow  of  her  soft  gold 

curls, 
She  leaned,  and  like  a  rose  eniicht  with 

dew, 
Whose  heart  is  heavy  with  the  clinging 

bee, 
Bowed  down  toward  him  all  her  glowing 

face, 
While  in  the  light  of  her  large  angry 

eyes 

Uprose,  and  rose,  a  slow  imperious  sorrow, 
And  o'er  the  shine  of  still,  unquivering 

tears 
Swam  on  to  him. 

But  he,  with  brows  averse 
And  orgolous  looks,  three  times  to  speech 

addressed, 
Three  times  in  vain.     The  silence  of  the 

place 
Fell  like  a  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 

hushed 

His  foolish  anger  with  authority. 
He  would  not  see  the  wretched  Queen  : 

he  saw 

Only  the  hunter  on  the  arrassed  wall 
Prepare  to  wind  amort  his  bugle  horn, 
Ana  the  long  daylight  dying  down  the 

floors ; 
For  half-way  through  the  golden  gates 

of  eve 

The  sun  was  rolled.     The  dropping  tap- 
estry glowed 
With  awful   hues.     Far  off  among  his 

reeds 


THE  PARTING  OF  LAUNCELOT  AND  GUENEVERE. 


371 


The  river,  smitten  with  a  waning  light, 
Shone  ; '  and,  behind  black   lengths   of 

pine  revealed, 
The  red  West  smouldered,  and  the  day 

declined. 
Then  year  by  year,  as  wave  on  wave  a 

sea, 

The  tided  Past  came  softly  o'er  his  heart, 
And  all  the  days  which  had  been. 

So  he  stood 

Long  in  his  mind  divided  :  with  himself 
At  strife  :  and,  like  a  steed  that  hotly 

chafes 
His   silver  bit,  which  yet  some  silken 

rein 
Swayed  by  a  skilled  accustomed  hand 

restrains, 
His  heart  against  the  knowledge  of  its 

love 
Made  vain  revolt,  and  fretful  rose  and 

sunk. 

But  at  the  last,  quelling  a  wayward  grief, 
That  swelled  against  all  utterance,  and 

sought 

To  force  its  salt  and  sorrowful  overflow 
Upon  weak  language,   "  Now  indeed," 

he  cried, 
"I   see    the    face  of   the  old    time  is 

changed, 
And  all  things  altered  !     Will  the  sun 

still  burn  ? 
Still  burn  the  eternal  stars  ?    For  love 

was  deemed 
Not    less    secure    than    these.      Needs 

should  there  be 

Something  remarkable  to  prove  the  world 
1  am  no  more  that  Launcelot,  nor  thou 
That  Guenevere,  of  whom,  long  since, 

the  fame, 
Fruitful   of  noble   deeds,  with   such   a 

light 
Did  fill   this  nook  and   cantle  of  the 

earth, 
That  all  gr§at  lands  of  Christendom  be- 

side 
Showed  darkened  of  their  glory.     But  I 

see 
That  there  is  nothing  left  for  men  to 

swear  by. 
For  then  thy  will  did  never  urge  me 

hence, 
But  drew  me  through  all  dangers  to  thy 

feet. 
And  none  can  say,  least  thou,  I  have 

not  been 
The  staff  and  burgonet  of  thy  fair  fame. 


Nor  mind  you,  Madam,  how  in  Surluse 

once, 

When  all  the  estates  were  met,  and  no- 
ble judges, 
Armed  clean  with  shields,  set  round  to 

keep  the  right, 

Before  you  sitting  throned  withGalahault 
In  great  array,  on  fair  green  quilts  of 

samite, 
Rich,  ancient,  fringed  with  gold,  seven 

summer  days, 

And  all  before  the  Earls  of  Northgalies, 
Such  service  then  with  this  old  sword 

was  wrought, 
To  crown  thy  beauty  in  the  courts  of 

Fame, 
That    in    that    time    fell    many  noble 

knights, 
And  all   men   marvelled  greatly  ?     So 

when  last 
The  loud  horns  blew  to  lodging,  and  we 

supped 

With  Palamedes  and  with  Lamorak, 
All  those  great  dukes  and  kings,  and 

famous  queens, 

Beholding  us  with  a  deep  joy,  avouched 
Across  the  golden  cups  of  costly  wine 
'  There  is  no  Queen  of  love  but  Guene- 
vere, 
And  no  true  knight  but  Launcelot  of  the 

Lake ! ' " 

Thus  he,  transported  by  the  thought  of 


And  deeds  that,  like  the  mournful  mar- 
tial sounds 

Blown  through  sad  towns  where  some 
dead  king  goes  by, 

Made  music  in  the  chambers  of  his  heart, 

Swept  by  the  mighty  memory  of  the  past. 

Nor  spake  the  sorrowful  Queen,  nor  from 
deep  muse 

Unbent  the  grieving  beauty  of  her  brows, 

But  held  her  heart's  proud  pain  superbly 
still. 

But  when  he  lifted  up  his  looks,  it  seemed 
Something  of   sadness   in   the  ancient 

place, 
Like  dying  breath  from  lips  beloved  of 

yore, 

Or  unforgotten  touch  of  tender  hands 
After  long  years,  upon  his  spirit  fell. 
For  near  the  carven  casement  hung  the 

bird, 
With  hood  and  jess,  that  oft  had  led 

them  forth, 


372 


THE  PARTING   OF    I.A!  N(  KLOT   AND  OUENEVERE. 


These  lovers,  through  the  heart  of  rip- 
pling woods 

At  morning,  in  the  old  and  pleasant  time. 

And  o'er  the  broidered  canopies  of  state 

Blazed  I' HUT'S  dragons,  curious,  wrought 
with  gems. 

Then  to  his  mind  that  dear  and  distant 
dawn 

Came  back,  when  first,  a  boy  at  Arthur's 
court, 

He  paused  abasht  before  the  youthful 
Queen. 

And ,  feeling  now  her  long  imploring  gaze 

Holding  him  in  its  sorrow,  when  he 
marked 

How  changed  her  state,  and  all  unlike 
to  her, 

The  most  renowned  beauty  of  the  time, 

And  pearl  of  chivalry,  for  whom  himself 

All  on  a  summer's  day  broke,  long  of 
yore 

A  hundred  lances  in  the  field,  he  sprang 

And  caught  her  hand,  and,  falling  to  one 
knee, 

Arched  all  his  haughty  neck  to  a  quick 
kiss. 

And  there  was  silence.  Silently  the 
West 

Grew  red  and  redder,  and  the  day  de- 
clined. 

As  o'er  the  hungering  heart  of  some  deep 

sea, 
That  swells  against  the  planets  and  the 

moon 

With  sad  continual  strife  and  vain  un- 
rest, 
In    silence  rise  and   roll   the  laboring 

clouds 
That  bind  the  thunder,  o'er  the  heaving 

heart 
Of  Guenevere  all  sorrows  fraught  with 

love, 

All  stormy  sorrows,  in  that  silence  passed. 
And  like  a  star  in  that  tumultuous  night 
Love  waxed  and  waned,  and  came  and 

went,  changed  hue, 
And  was  and  was  not :   till  the  cloud 

came  down. 
And  all  her  soul  dissolved  in  showers  : 

and  love 
Rose  through  the  broken  storm  :  and, 

with  a  cry 
Of  passion  sheathed  in  sharpest  pain,  she 

stretched 
Wide  her  warm   arms :    she   rose,   she 

reeled,  and  fell 


(All    her  great   In-art    iimpM-ened)   upon 

the  breast 

Of  Launeelot ;  and,  lifting  up  h>-r  voice, 
She  wept  aloud,  "  Unhappy  that  I  am," 
She  wept,  "  I'nliappy  !  Would  that  I 

h:ul  died 

Long  since,  long  ere  I  loved  thee,  Laun- 
eelot ! 
Would  I  had  died  long  since !  ere  I  had 

known 

This  pain,  which  hath  become  my  pun- 
ishment, 
To  have  thirsted  for  the  sea :  to  have 

received 

A  drop  no  bigger  than  a  drop  of  dew  ! 
I  have  done  ill,"  she  wept,  "  I  am  for- 
lorn, 

Forlorn  !  I  falter  where  I  stood  secure  : 
The  tower  I  built  is  fall'n,  is  fall'n  :  the 

staff 

I  leaned  upon  hath  broken  in  my  hand. 
And  I,  disrobed,  dethroned,  discrowned, 

and  all  undone, 
Survive   my   kingdom,   widowed  of  all 

rule, 
And  men  shall  mock  me  for  a  foolish 

Queen. 

For  now  I  sec  thy  love  for  me  is  dead, 
Dead  that  brief  love  which  was  the  light 

of  life, 
And  all  is  dark  :  and  I  have  lived  too 

long. 
For  how  henceforth,  unhappy,  shall  I 

bear 
To  dwell  among  these  halls  where  we 

have  been  ? 
How  keep  these  chambers  emptied  of  thy 

voice  ? 
The  walks  where  we  have  lingered  long 

ago, 

The  gardens  and  the  places  of  our  love, 
Which  shall  recall  the  days  that  come 

no  more, 
And  all  the  joy  which  has  been  ?  " 

Thus%'erthrown. 
And  on  the  breast  of  Launeelot  weeping 

wild  — 
Weeping  and  murmuring  —  hung  Queen 

(Juenevere. 
But,  while  she   wept,   upon   her  brows 

and  lips 
Warm  kisses  fell,  warm  kisses  wet  with 

tew*. 

For  all  his  mind  was  melted  with  remorse, 
And  all  his  scorn  was  killed,  and  all  his 

heart 
Gave  way  in  that  caress,  and  all  the  love 


THE  PARTING  OF  LACNCELOT  AND  GUENEVERE. 


373 


Of  happier  years  rolled  down  upon  his 

soul 
Redoubled  ;  and  he  bowed  his  head,  and 

cried, 

"  Though  thou  be  variable  as  the  waves, 
More  sharp  than  winds  among  the  Heb- 
rides 
That  shut  the  frozen  Spring  in  stormy 

clouds, 

As  wayward  as  a  child,  and  all  unjust, 
Yet  must  I  love  thee  in  despite  of  pain, 
Thou   peerless  Queen   of  perfect   love  ! 

Thou  star 
That  draw'st  all  tides  !     Thou  goddess 

far  above 
My  heart's  weak  worship  !  so  adored  thou 

art, 

And  I  so  irretrievably  all  thine  ! 
But  now  I  will  arise,  as  thou  hast  said, 
And  join   the  King  :    and   these  thine 

enemies 
Shall    know   thee    not   defenceless   any 

more. 

For,  either,  living,  I  yet  hold  my  life 
To  arm  for  thine,  or,  dying,  by  my  death 
Will  steep  love's  injured  honor  in  such 

blood 
Shall  wash   out   every  stain  !     And  so 

farewell, 

Beloved.     Forget  me  not  when  I  am  far, 
But  in  thy  prayers  and  in  thine  evening 

thoughts 
Remember  me :    as   I,    when   sundown 

crowns 

The  distant  hills,  and  Ave-Mary  rings, 
Shall  pine  for  thee  on  ways  where  thou 

art  not." 

So  these  two  lovers  in  one  long  embrace, 
An  agony  of  reconcilement,  hung 
Blinded  in  tears  and  kisses,  lip  to  lip, 
And  tranced  from  past  and  future,  time 
and  space. 

But  by  this  time,  the  beam  of  the  slope 

day, 
Edging  blue  mountain  glooms  with  sullen 

gold, 

A  dying  fire,  fell  mournfully  athwart 
The   purple   chambers.      In    the   courts 

below 

The  shadow  of  the  keep  from  wall  to  wall 
Shook  his  dark  skirt :  great  chimes  began 

to  sound, 
And   swing,    and    rock   in   glimmering 

height3?  and  rol) 


A  reeling  music  down  :  but  ere  it  fell 
Faint  bells  in  misty  spires  adown  the  vale 
Caught  it,    and  bore  it  floating   on  to 
night. 

So  from  that  long  love-trance  the  envious 

time 
Reclaimed   them.      Then   with   a   great 

pang  he  rose 
Like  one  that  plucked  his  heart  out  from 

his  breast, 

And,  bitterly  unwinding  her  white  arms 
From  the  warm  circle  of  their  amorous  fold, 
Left  living  on  her  lips  the  lingering  heat 
Of  one  long  kiss  :  and,  gathering  strong- 
ly back 

His  poured-out  anguish  to  his  soul,  lie 
went. 

And  the  sun  set. 

Long  while  she  sat  alone, 
Searching  the  silence  with  her  fixed  eyes, 
While  far  and  farther  off  o'er  distant 

floors 

The  intervals  of  brazen  echoes  fell. 
A  changeful  light,  from  varying  passions 

caught, 
Flushed  all  her  stately  cheek  from  white 

to  red 

In  doubtful  alternation,  as  some  star 
Changes  his  fiery  beauty  :  for  her  blood 
Set  headlong  to  all  wayward  moods   of 

sense, 
Stirred   with   swift  ebb  and  flow :   till 

suddenly  all 
The  frozen  heights  of  grief  fell  loosed, 

fast,  fast, 

In  cataract  over  cataract,  on  her  soul. 
Then  at  the  last  she  rose,  a  reeling  shape 
That  like  a  shadow  swayed  against  the 

wall, 
Her  slight  hand  held  upon  her  bosom, 

and  fell 

Before  the  Virgin  Mother  on  her  knees. 
There,  in  a  halo  of  the  silver  shrine, 
That  touched  and  turned  to  starlight  her 

slow  tears, 

Below  the  feet  of  the  pale-pictured  saint 
She  lay,  poured  out  in  prayer. 

Meanwhile,  without, 
A  sighing  rain  from  a  low  fringe  of  cloud 
Whispered  among  the  melancholy  hills. 
The   night's   dark    limits  widened :    far 

above 
The  crystal  sky  lay  open  :  and  the  star 


374 


A  SUNSET   FANCY. -ASSOCIATIONS. 


Of  eve,  his  rosy  circlet  trembling  clear, 
<!ivw  large  and  bright,  and  in  tiie  silver 

moats, 

Between  the  accumulated  terraces, 
Tangled  a  trail  of  fire  :  and  all  was  still. 


A  SUNSET  FANCY. 

JUST  at  sunset,  I  would  be 

In  some  isle-garden,  where  the  sea 

I  look  into  shall  seem  more  blue 

Than  those  dear  and  deep  eyes  do. 

And,  if  anywhere  the  breeze 

Shall  have  stirred  the  cypress-trees, 

Straight  the  yellow  light  fulls  through, 

Catching  me,  for,  once,  at  ease  ; 

Just  so  much  as  may  impinge 

Some  tall  lily  with  a  tinge 

Of  orange  ;  while,  above  the  wall, 

Tumbles  downward  into  view 

(With  a  sort  of  small  surprise) 

One  star  more  among  them  all, 

For  me  to  watch  with  half-shut  eyes. 

Or  else  upon  the  breezy  deck 

Of  some  felucca  ;  and  one  speck 

Twixt  the  crimson  and  the  yellow, 

Which  may  be  a  little  fleck 

Of  cloud,  or  gull  with  outstretcht  neck, 

To  Spezia  bound  from  Cape  Circello  ; 

With  a  sea-song  in  my  ears 

Of  the  bronzed  buccaneers  : 

While  the  night  is  waxing  mellow, 

And  the  helmsman  slackly  steers,  — 

Leaning,  talking  to  his  fellow, 

Who  has  oaths  for  all  he  hears,  — 

Each  thief  swarthier  than  Othello. 

Or,  in  fault  of  better  things, 

Close  in  sound  of  one  who  sings 

To  casements,  in  a  southern  city  ; 

Tinkling  upon  tender  strings 

Some  melodious  old  love-ditty  ; 

While  a  laughing  lady  flings 

One  rose  to  him,  just  for  pity. 

But  I  have  not  any  waut 

Sweeter  than  to  be  with  you, 

When  the  long  light  falleth  slant, 

And  heaven  turns  a  darker  blue  ; 

And  a  deeper  smile  grows  through 

The  glance  asleep  'neath  those  soft  lashes, 

Which  the  heart  it  steals  into 

First  inspires  and  then  abashes. 

Just  to  hold  your  hand,  —  one  touch 

So  light  you  scarce  should  feel  it  such  ! 

Just  to  watch  you  leaning  o'er 

Those  window-roses,  love,  .  .  ,  no  more. 


ASSOCIATIONS. 

You  know  the  place  is  just  the  same  ! 

The  rooks  build  here  :  the  sandy  hill  is 
Ablaze  with  broom,  as  when  she  cunu- 
Across  the  sea  with  her  new  name 

To  dwell  among  the  moated  lilies. 

The  trifoly  is  on  the  walls  : 

The  daisies  in  the  bowling-alley  : 
The  ox  at  eve  lows  from  the  stalls  : 
At  eve  the  cuckoo,  floating,  culls, 

When  foxgloves  tremble  in  the  valley. 

The  iris  blows  from  court  to  court  : 

The  bald  white  spider  flits,  or  stays  in 
The  chinks  behind  the  dragon  wort  : 
That  Triton  still,  at  his  old  sport, 
Blows  bubbles  in  his  broken  basin. 

The  terrace  where  she  used  to  walk 

Still  shines  at  noon  between  the 
The  garden  paths  are  blind  with  chalk  : 
The  dragon-fly  from  stalk  to  stalk 
Swims    sparkling    blue    till   evening 
closes. 

Then,  just  above  that  long  dark  copse, 

One  warm  red  star  comes  out,  and  passes 
Westward,  and  mounts,  and  mounts,  and 

stops 
(Or  seems  to)  o'er  the  turret-tops, 

And    lights    those    lonely   casement- 
glasses. 

Sir  Ralph  still  wears  that  old  grim  smile. 

The  staircase -creaks  as  up  I  clamber 
To  those  still  rooms,  to  muse  awhile. 
I  see  the  little  meadow-stile 

As  I  lean  from  the  great  south-chamber. 

And  Lady  Ruth  is  just  as  white. 

(Ah,   still,  that  face  seems  strangely 

like  her  !) 

The  lady  and  the  wicked  knight  — - 
All   just   the   same  —  she  swooned   for 

fright  — 

And  he  —  his  arm  still  raised  to  strike 
her. 

Her  boudoir  —  no  one  enters  there  : 
The  very  flowers  which  last  she  gath- 
ered 

Are  in  the  vase  ;  the  lute  —  the  chair  — 
And  all  things  —just  as  then  they  were  ! 
Except  the  jaspiins,  —  those  are  with- 
ered., 


'THE    BREEZY    DECK    OF  SOME   FELUCCA."  —  Page  374. 


MEETING   AGAIN.— AT  HER  CASEMENT. 


375 


But  when  along  the  corridors 

The  last  red  pause  of  day  is  streaming, 
I  seem  to  hear  her  up  the  floors  : 
I  seem  to  see  her  through  the  doors  : 

And  then  I  know  that  I  am  dreaming. 


MEETING  AGAIN. 

YES  ;  I  remember  the  white  rose.     And 

sin  ce  then  the  you  ng  ivy  has  grown ; 
From  your  window  we  could  not  reach  it, 

and  now  it  is  over  the  stone. 
We  did  not  part  as  we  meet,  Dear.     Well, 

Time  hath  his  own  stem  cures  ! 
And  Alice's  eyes  are  deeper,  and  her  hair 

has  grown  like  yours. 

Is  our  greeting  all  so  strange  then  ?     But 

there  's  something  here  amiss, 
When  it  is  not  well  to  speak  kindly.    And 

the  olives  are  ripe  by  this. 
I  had  not  thought  you  so  altered.     But 

all  is  changed,  God  knows  ! 
Good-night.  It  is  night  so  soon  now.  Look 

there!  you  have  dropt  your  rose. 

Nay,  I  have  one  that  is  withered  and 

dearer  to  rne.     I  came 
To  say  good  night,  little  Alice.     She  does 

not  remember  my  name. 
It  is  but  the  damp  that  is  making  my 

head  and  my  heart  ache  so. 
I  never  was  strong  in  the  old  time,  as  the 

others  were,  you  know. 

And  you  '11  sleep  well,  will  you  not,  Dar- 
ling? The  old  words  sound  so  dear! 

'T  is  the  last  time  I  shall  use  them  ;  you 
need  show  neithfc-  anger  nor  fear. 

It  is  well  that  you  look  so  cheerful.  And 
is  time  so  smooth  with  you  ? 

How  foolish  I  am  !  Good  night,  Dear. 
And  bid  Alice  good  night  too. 


ARISTOCRACY. 


To  thee  be  all  men  heroes  :  every  race 
Noble  :   all  women   virgins :   and  each 

place 
A  temple :  know  thou  nothing  that  is 

base. 


THE  MERMAIDEN. 

HE  was  a  Prince  with  golden  hair 

(In  a  palace  beside  the  sea), 
And  I  but  a  poor  Mermaiden,  — 

And  how  should  he  care  for  me  ? 

Last  summer  I  came,  in  the  long  blue 
nights, 

To  sit  in  the  cool  sea-caves  : 
Last  summer  he  came  to  count  the  stars 

From  his  terrace  above  the  waves. 

There  's  nothing  so  fair  in  the  sea  down 

there 

As  the  light  on  his  golden  tresses  : 
There  's  nothing  so  sweet  as  his  voice  : 

ah,  nothing 
So  warm  as  the  warmth  of  his  kisses  ! 

I  could  not  help  but  love  him,  love  him, 
Till  my  love  grew  pain  to  me. 

And  to-morrow  he  weds  the  Princess 
In  that  palace  beside  the  sea. 


AT  HER  CASEMENT. 

I  AM  knee-deep  in  grass,  in  this  warm 

June  night, 
In  the  shade  here,  shut  off  from  the  great 

moonlight. 

All  alone,  at  her  casement  there, 
She  sits  in  the  light,  and  she  combs  her 

hair. 

She  shakes  it  over  the  carven  seat, 
And  combs  it  down  to  her  stately  feet. 
And  I  watch  her,  hid  in  the  blue  June 

night, 
Till  my  soul  grows  faint  with  the  costly 

sight.  _ 

There  's  no  flaw  on  that  fair  fine  brow  of 

hers, 

As  fair  and  as  proud  as  Lucifer's. 
She  looks  in  the  glass  as  she  turns  her 

head  : 
She  knows  that  the  rose  on  her  cheek  is 

red  : 
She  knows  how  her  dark  eyes  shine,  — 

their  light 
Would   scarcely   be   dimmed   though   I 

died  to-night. 

I   would   that  there   in  her  chamber  I 

stood, 
Full-face  to  her  terrible  beauty  :  I  would 


376 


A  FAREWELL.— AN    KVKNIMl    IN    TUSCANY. 


I  were  laid  on  her  c[iiernly  breast,  at  her 

lips, 
With  hoi  warm  h;iir  wound  through  my 

finger-tips, 

Draining  her  soul  at  one  deep-drawn  kiss. 
And  I  would  be  humbly  content  for  this 
To  die,  as  is  due,  before  the  morn, 
Killed  by  her  slowly  returning  scorn. 


A  FAREWELL. 

BE  happy,  child.     The  last  wild  words 

are  spoken. 
To-morrow,  mine  no  more,  the  world  will 

claim  thee. 
I   blame   thee   not.     But  all  my  life  is 

broken. 

Of  that  brief  Past  I  have  no  single  token. 
Never  in   years  to  come  my  lips  shall 

name  thee, 
Never,  child,  never ! 

I  will  not  say  "  Forget  me  "  ;  nor  those 

hours 
Which  were  so  sweet.     Some  scent  dead 

leaves  retain. 
Keep  all  the  flowers  I  gave  thee  —  all 

the  flowers 
Dead,  dead  !     Though  years  on  years  of 

life  were  ours, 

As  we  have  met  we  shall  not  meet  again  ; 
Forever,  child,  forever ! 


AN  EVENING   IN  TUSCANY. 

LOOK  !  the  sun  sets.     Now  's  the  rarest 

Hour  of  all  the  blessed  day. 
(Just  the  hour,  love,  you  look  fairest  ! ) 

Even  the  snails  are  out  to  play. 

Cool  the  breeze  mounts,  like  this  Chianti 
Which  I  drain  down  to  the  sun. 

—There!  shut  up  that  old  green  Dante,— 
Turn  the  page,  where  we  begun, 

At  the  last  news  of  Ulysses,  — 

A  grand  image,  fit  to  close 
Just  such  grand  gold  eves  as  this  is, 

Full  of  splendor  and  repose  ! 

So  loop  up  those  long  bright  tresses,  — 

Only,  one  or  two  must  fall 
Down  your  warm  neck  Evening  kisses 

Through  the  soft  curls  spite  of  all. 


All,  but.  rest  in  your  still  place  there  ! 

Stir  not  —  turn  not !  the  warm  pleasure 
Coming,  going  in  your  face  there, 

And  the  rose  (no  richer  treasure) 

In  your  bosom,  like  my  love  there, 
Just  half  secret  and  half  seen  ; 

And  the  soft  light  from  above  there 
Streaming  o'er  you  where  you  lean, 

With  your  fair  head  in  the  shadow 
Of  that  grass-hat's  glancing  brim, 

Like  a  daisy  in  a  meadow 

Which  its  own  deep  fringes  dim. 

0  you  laugh,  —  you  cry  "  What  folly  !  " 
Yet  you  'd  scarcely  have  me  wise, 

If  I  judge  right,  judging  wholly 
By  the  secret  in  your  eyes. 

But  look  down  now,  o'er  the  city 
Sleeping  soft  among  the  hills,  — 

Our  dear  Florence  !     That  great  Pitti 
With  its  steady  shadow  lills 

Half  the  town  up  :  its  unwinking 
Cold  white  windows,  as  they  glare 

Down  the  long  streets,  set  one  thinking 
Of  the  old  dukes  who  lived  there  ; 

And  one  pictures  those  strange  men  so ! — 
Subtle  brains,  and  iron  thews  : 

There,  the  gardens  of  Lorenzo,  — 
The  long  cypress  avenues 

Creep  up  slow  the  stately  hillside 
Where  the  merry  loungers  are. 

But  far  more  I  love  this  still  side,  — 
The  blue  plain  you  see  so  far  ! 

Where  the  shore  of  blight  white  villas 
Leaves  off  fain*:  the  purple  breadths 

Of  the  olives  and  the  willows  : 
And  the  gold-rimmed  mountain-widths  : 

All  transfused  in  slumbrous  glory 
To  one  burning  point  —  the  sun  ' 

But  up  here,  — slow,  cold,  and  hoary 
Reach  the  olives,  one  by  one  : 

And  the  land  looks  fresh  :  the  yellow 
Arbute-berries,  here  and  there, 

Growing  slowly  ripe  and  mellow 
Through  a  flush  of  rosy  hair. 

For  the  Tramontana  last  week 

Was  about :  't  is  scarce  three  weeks 


SONG. 


377 


Since  the  snow  lay,  one  white  vast  streak, 
Upon  those  old  purple  peaks. 

So  to-day  among  the  grasses 

One  may  pick  up  tens  and  twelves 

Of  young  olives,  as  one  passes, 
Blown  about,  and  by  themselves 

Blackening  sullen-ripe.     The  corn  too 
Grows  each  day  from  green  to  golden. 

The  large-eyed  wind-flowers  forlorn  too 
Blow  among  it,  unbeholden  : 

Some  white,  some  crimson,  others 
Purple  blackening  to  the  heart. 

From  the  deep  wheat-sea,  which  smothers 
Their  bright  globes  up,  how  they  start ! 

And  the  small  wild  pinks  from  tender 

Feather-grasses  peep  at  us  : 
While  above  them  burns,  on  slender 

Stems,  the  red  gladiolus  : 

And  the  grapes  are  green  :  this  season 
They  '11  be  round  and  sound  and  true, 

If  no  after-blight  should  seize  on 
Those  young  bunches  turning  blue. 

0  that  night  of  purple  weather  ! 

(Just  before  the  moon  had  set) 
You  remember  how  together 

We  walked  home  ?  —  the  grass  was 
wet  — 

The  long  grass  in  the  Podere  — 
With  the  balmy  dew  among  it : 

And  that  nightingale  —  the  fairy 
Song  he  sung  —  0  how  Tie  sung  it ! 

And  the  fig-trees  had  grown  .heavy 
With  the  young  figs  white  and  woolly, 

And  the  fire-flies,  bevy  on  bevy 
Of  soft  sparkles,  pouring  fully 

Their  warm  life  through  trance  on  trances 
Of  thick  citron-shades  behind, 

Rose,  like  swarms  of  loving  fancies 
Through  some  rich  and  pensive  mind. 

So  we  reached  the  loggia.     Leaning 
Faint,  we  sat  there  in  the  shade. 

Neither  spoke.     The  night's  deep  mean- 
ing 
Filled  the  silence  up  unsaid. 

Hoarsely  through  the  cypress  alley 
A  civetta  out  of  tune  . 


Tried  his  voice  by  fits.     The  valley 
Lay  all  dark  below  the  moon. 

Until  into  song  you  burst  out,  — 
That  old  song  I  made  for  you 

When  we  found  our  rose.  —  the  first  out 
Last  sweet  Springtime  in  the  dew. 

Well ! .  . .  if  things  had  gone  less  wildly  — 

Had  I  settled  down  before 
There,  in  England  —  labored  mildly  — 

And  been  patient  —  and  learned  more 

Of  how  men  should  live  in  London  — 
Been  less  happy  —  or  more  wise  — 

Left  no  great  works  tried,  and  undone  — 
Never  looked  in  your  soft  eyes  — 

I  ...  but  what 's  the  use  of  thinking  ? 

There  !  our  nightingale  begins  — 
Now  a  rising  note  —  now  sinking 

Back  in  little  broken  rings 

Of  warm  song  that  spread  and  eddy  — 
Now  he  picks  up  heart  —  and  draws 

His  great  music,  slow  and  steady, 
To  a  silver-centred  pause  ! 

SONG. 

THE  purple  iris  hangs  his  head 

On  his  lean  stalk,  and  so  declines  : 
The  spider  spills  his  silver  thread 

Between  the  bells  of  columbines  : 
An  altered  light  in  flickering  eves 
Draws  dews  through  these  dim  eyes  of 

ours  : 

Death  walks  in  yonder  waning  bowers, 
And  burns  the  blistering  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Blooms  overblow  : 
Suns  sink  away  : 
Sweet  things  decay. 

The  drunken  beetle,  roused  ere  night, 
Breaks   blundering  from  the  rotting 

rose, 

Flits  through  blue  spidery  aconite, 
And  hums,  and  comes,  and  goes  : 
His  thick,  bewildered  song  receives 
A  drowsy  sense  of  grief  like  ours  : 
He  hums  and  hums  among  the  bowers, 
And  bangs  about  the  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Hearts  overflow  : 
Joy  flits  away  : 
Sweet  things  decay. 


378 


SKA  SIDE  SONGS. 


Her  yellow  stars  the  jasmin  drops 

In  mildewed  mosses  one  by  one  : 
The  hollyhocks  full  off  their  torn  : 

The  lotus-blooms  ail  white  i'  the  sun  : 
The  freckled  foxglove  faints  and  grieves  : 
The  smooth-paced  slumbrous  slug  de- 
vours 

The  gluey  globes  of  gorgeous  flowers, 
And  smears  the  glistering  leaves  ! 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Life  leaves  us  so. 
Love  dare  not  stay. 
Sweet  things  decay. 

From  brazen  sunflowers,  orb  and  fringe, 
The  burning  burnish  dulls  and  dies  : 
Sad  Autumn  sets  a  sullen  tinge 

Upon  the  scornful  peonies  : 
The  dewy  frog  limps  out,  and  heaves 
A  speckled  lump  in  speckled  bowers  : 
A  reeking  moisture,  clings  and  lowers 
The  lips  of  lapping  leaves. 
Ah,  well-a-day  ! 
Ere  the  cock  crow, 
Life's  charmed  array 
Reels  all  away. 


SEASIDE  SONGS. 
I. 

DROP  down  below  the  orbed  sea, 

0  lingering  light  in  glowing  skies, 
And  bring  my  own  true-love  to  me  — 
My  dear  true-love  across  the  sea  — 
With  tender-lighted  eyes. 

For  now  the  gates  of  Night  are  flung 
Wide  open  her  dark  coasts  among  : 
And  the  happy  stars  crowd  up,  and  up, 
Like  bubbles  that  brighten,  one  by 

one, 
To  the  dark  wet  brim  of  some  glowing 

cup 
Filled  full  to  the  parting  sun. 

And  moment  after  moment  grows 
In  grandeur  up  from  deep  to  deep 
Of  darkness,    till   the    night  hath 

clomb, 
From  star  to  star,  heaven's  highest 

dome, 

And,  like  a  new  thought  born  in  sleep, 
The  slumbrous  glory  glows,  and  glows  : 
While,  far  below,  a  whisper  goe§ 


That  heaves  the  happy  sea  : 
For  o'er  faint  tracts  of  fragrance  wide, 
A  rapture  pouring  up  the  li«l-- 
A  freshness  through  the.  heat  —  a  sweet, 
Uncertain  sound,  like  fairy  feet  — 

The  west-wind  blows  my  love  to  me. 

Love-laden  from  the  lighted  west 
Thou  comest,  with  thy  soul  opprest 
For  joy  of  him  :  all  up  the  dim, 

Delicious  sea  blow  fearlessly, 
Warm  wind,  that  art  the  tenderest 
Of  all  that  breathe  from  south  or  west, 

Blow  whispers  of  him  up  the  sea  : 
Upon  my  cheek,  and  on  my  breast, 
And  on  the  lips  which  he  hath  prest, 

Blow  all  his  kisses  back  to  me  ! 

Far  off,  the  dark  green  rocks  about, 
All  night  shines,  faint  and  fair,  the  far 

light ; 

Far  off,  the  lone,  late  fishers  shout 
From  boat  to  boat  i'  the  listening  star- 
light : 

Far  off,  and  fair,  the  sea  lies  bare, 
Leagues,  leagues  beyond  the  reach  of 

rowing : 
Up  creek  and  horn   the  smooth  wave 

swells 

And  falls  asleep  ;  or,  inland  flowing, 
Twinkles  among  the  silver  shells, 
From  sluice  to  sluice  of  shallow  wells  ; 
Or,  down  dark  pools  of  purple  glow- 
ing, 

Sets  some  forlorn  star  trembling  there 
In  his  own  dim,  dreamlike  brilliancy. 

And  I  feel  the  dark  sails  growing 
Nearer,  clearer,  up  the  sea  : 

And  I  catch  the  warm  west  blowing 
All  my  own  love's  sighs  to  me  : 
On  the  deck  I  hear  them  singing 

Songs  they  sing  in  my  own  land  : 
Lights  are  swinging  :  bells  are  ringing  : 
On  the  deck  I  see  him  stand  ! 


IL 

The  day  is  down  into  his  bower  : 
In  languid  lights  his  feet  he  steeps  : 

The  flusht  sky  darkens,  low  and  lower, 
And  closes  on  the  glowing  deeps. 

In  creeping  curves  of  yellow  foam 
Up  shallow  sands  the  waters  slide  : 

And  warmly  blow  what  whimpers  roam 
Froni  isle  to  isle  the  lulled  tide  : 


THE  SUMMER-TIME  THAT  WAS. -ELAYNE  LE  BLANC.        379 


The   boats   are   drawn  :    the   nets   drip 

bright  : 
Dark  casements  gleam  :  old  songs  are 

sung : 
And  out  upon  the  verge  of  night 

Green  lights  from  lonely  rocks  are  hung. 

0  winds  of  eve  that  somewhere  rove 
Where  darkest  sleeps  the  distant  sea, 

Seek  out  where  haply  dreams  my  love, 
And  whisper  all  her  dreams  to  me  ! 


THE  SUMMER-TIME  THAT  WAS. 

THE  swallow  is  not  come  yet ; 

The  river-banks  are  brown  ; 
The  woodside  walks  are  dumb  yet, 

And  dreary  is  the  town. 
I  miss  a  face  from  the  window, 

A  footstep  from  the  grass  ; 
I  miss  the  boyhood  of  my  heart, 

And  the  summer-time  that  was. 

How  shall  I  read  the  books  I  read, 

Or  meet  the  men  I  met  ? 
I  thought  to  find  her  rose-tree  dead, 

But  it  is  growing  yet. 
And  the  river  winds  among  the  flags, 

And  the  leaf  lies  on  the  grass. 
But  I  walk  alone.     My  hopes  are  gone, 

And  the  summer-time  that  was. 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 

O  THAT  sweet  season  on  the  April-verge 

Of  womanhood!  When  smiles  are  toucht 
with  tears, 

And  all  the  unsolaced  summer  seems  to 
grieve 

With  some  blind  want :  when  Eden- 
exiles  feel 

Their  Paradisal  parentage,  and  search 

Even  yet  some  fragrance  through  the 
thorny  years 

From  reachless  gardens  guarded  by  the 
sword. 

Then  those  that  brood  above  the  fallen 

sun, 
Or  lean  from  lonely  casements  to  the 

moon, 
Turn  round  and  miss  the  touching  of  a 

hand  : 
Then  sad  thoughts  seem  to  be  more  sweet 

than  gay  ones  : 


Then  old  songs  have  a  sound  as  pitiful 
As  dead  friends'  voices,  sometimes  heard 

in  dreams  : 

And  all  a-tiptoe  for  some  great  event, 
The  Present  waits,  her  finger  at  her  lips, 
The  while  the  pensive   Past  with  meek 

pale  palms, 
Crost  (where  a  child  should  lie)  on  her 

cold  breast, 
And  wistful  eyes  forlorn,  stands  mutely 

by, 

Reproaching  Life  with  some  unuttered 

loss ; 

And  the  heart  pines,  a  prisoned  Danae, 
Till  some  God  comes,  and  makes  the  air 

all  golden. 

In  such  a  mood  as  this,  at  such  an  hour 
As  makes  sad  thoughts  fall  saddest  on 

the  soul, 

She,  in  her  topmost  bower  all  alone, 
High-up  among  the  battlemented  roofs, 
Leaned  from  the  lattice,  where  the  road 

runs  by 

To  Camelot,  and  in  the  bulrush  beds 
The  marish  river  shrinks  his  stagnant 

horn. 
All  round,   along    the    spectral    arras, 

gleamed 

(With  faces  pale  against  the  dreary  light, 
Forms  of  great  Queens  —  the  women  of 

old  times. 
She  felt  their  frowns  upon  her,  and  their 

smiles, 

And  seemed  to  hear  their  garments  rus- 
tling near. 

Her  lute  lay  idle  her  love-books  among  : 
And,  at  her  feet,  flung  by,  the  broidered 

scarf, 
And  velvet  mantle.     On  the  verge  of 

night 
She  saw  a  bird  float  by,  and  wished  for. 

wings : 
She  heard  the  hoarse  frogs  quarrel  in  the 

marsh  : 
And  now  and  then,  with  drowsy  song 

and  oar, 
Some  dim  barge  sliding  slow  from  bridge 

to  bridge, 
Down   the   white    river   past,    and   far 

behind 
Left  a  new  silence.     Then  she  fell  to 

muse 

Unto  what  end  she  came  into  this  earth 
Whose  reachless  beauty  made  her  heart 

so  sad, 
As  one  that  loves,  but  hopes  not,  inly  ails 


380 


ELAYNE  LE  BLANC. 


In  gazing  on  some  fair  unloving  face. 
Anon,  there  dropt  down  a  great  gulf  of 

sky 
A  star  she  knew  ;  and  as  she  looked  at 

it, 
Down-drawn   through   her  intensity  of 

gaze, 

One  angry  ray  fell  tangled  in  her  tears, 
And   dashed  its  blinding  brightness  in 

her  eyes. 
She   turned,  and  caught  her  lute,  and 

pensively 
Rippled    a    random    music    down    the 

strings, 
And  sang  .  .  . 

All  night  the  moonbeams  bathe  the 

the  sward. 
There 's  not  an  eye  to-night  in  Joyous- 

Gard 
That  is  not  dreaming  something  sweet. 

I  wake 

Because  it  is  more  sweet  to  dream  awake : 
Dreaming  1  see  thy  face  upon'the  lake. 

I  am  come  up  from  far,  love,  to  behold 

thee, 
That  hast  waited  for  me  so  bravely  and 

well 
Thy  sweet  life  long  (for  the  Fairies  had 

told  thee 
I  am  the  Knight  that  shall  loosen  the 

spell), 
And  to-morrow  morn   mine  arms  shall 

infold  thee  : 

And  to-morrow  night  .  .  .  ah,  who  can 
.         tell  ? 

As  the  spirit  of  some  dark  lake 
Pines  at  nightfall,  wild-awake, 
For  the  approaching  consummation 
Of  a  great  moon  he  divines 
Coming  to  her  coronation 
Of  the  dazzling  stars  and  signs, 
So  my  heart,  my  heart, 
Darkly  (ah,  and  tremblingly  !) 
Waits  in  mystic  expectation 
(From  its  wild  source  far  apart) 
Until  it  be  filled  with  thee,  — 
With  the  full-orbed  light  of  thee,  — 
0  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 
With  the  soft  sad  smile  that  flashes 
Underneath  thy  long  dark  lashes  ; 
And  thy  floating  raven  hair 
From  its  wreathed  pearls  let  slip  ; 
And  thy  breath,  like  balmy  air  ; 
And  thy  warm  wet  rosy  lip, 


With  my  first  kiss  lingering  there  ; 
Its  sweet  secret  unrevealed,  — 
Sealed  by  me,  t<>  me  unsealed  ; 
And  .  .  .  but,  ah  !  she  lies  asleep 
In  yon  gray  stone  castle-keep, 
On  her  lids  the  happy  tear; 
And  alone  I  linger  here  ; 
And  to-morrow  morn  the  fight ; 
And  .  .  .  ah,  me  !  to-morrow  night  ? 

Here  she  brake,  trembling,  off ;  and  on 

the  lute, 
Yet   vibrating    through    its    melodious 

nerves, 
A  great  tear  plashed  and  tinkled.     For 

a  while 
She  sat  and  mused  ;  and,  heavily,  drop 

by  drop, 
Her  tears  fell  down  ;  then  through  them 

a  slow  smile 
Stole,  full  of  April-sweetness  ;  and  she 

sang  — 

—  It  was  a  sort  of  ballad  of  the  sea : 
A  song  of  weather-beaten  mariners, 
Gray-headed  men  that  had  survived  all 

winds 
And  held   a  perilous. sport  among  the 

waves, 
Who  yet  sang  on  with  hearts  as  bold  as 

when 
They  cleared  their  native  harbor  with  a 

shout, 
And  lifted  golden  anchors  in  the  sun. 

Merrily,  merrily  drove  our  barks,  — 
Merrily  up  from  the  morning  beach ! 
And  the  brine  broke  under  the  prows  in 

sparks ; 

For  a  spirit  sat  high  at  the  helm  of  each. 
We  sailed  all  day  ;  and,  when  day  was' 

done, 
Steered  after  the  wake  of  the  sunken 

sun, 

For  we  meant  to  follow  him  out  of  reach 
Till  the  golden  dawn  was  again  begun. 

With  lifted  oars,  with  shout  and  song, 
Merry  mariners  all  were  we  ! 
Every  heart  beat  stout  and  strong. 
Through  all  the  world  you  would  not 

see, 
Though  you  should  journey  wide  and 

long, 

A  comelier  company. 
And  where,  the  echoing  creeks  among, 
Merrily,  steadily, 
From  bay  to  bay  our  barks  did  fall, 


ELAYNE  LE   BLANC. 


381 


You  might  hear  us  singing,  one  and  all, 
A  song  of  the  mighty  sea. 
But,  just  at  twilight,  down  the  rocks 
Dim  forms    trooped    fast,   and    clearer 

grew  : 

For  out  upon  the  sea-sand  came 
The  island-people,  whom  we  knew, 
And   called    us  :  —  girls   with  glowing 

locks ; 

And  sunburnt  boys  that  tend  the  herd 
Far  up  the  vale  ;  gray  elders  too 
With    silver    beards  :  —  their  cries  we 

heard  : 
They  called  us,  each  one  by  his  name. 

"Could  ye  not  wait  a  little  while," 
We  heard  them  sing,  "for  all  our  sakes  ? 
A  little  while,  in  this  old  isle," 
They  sung,  "among  the  silver  lakes  ? 
For  here,"  they  sung,    "from  horn  to 

horn 

Of  flowery  bays  the  land  is  fair : 
The   hillside    glows   with   grapes  :    the 

corn 

Grows  golden  in  the  vale  down  there. 
Our  maids  are  sad  for  you,"  they  sung  : 
"  Against  the  field  no  sickle  falls  : 
Upon  the  trees  our  harps  are  hung : 
Our  doors  are  void  :  and  in  the  stalls 
The  little  foxes  nest ;  among 
The  herd-roved  hills  no  shepherd  calls : 
Your   brethren   mourn   for  you,"   they 

sung. 
"  Here  weep  your  wives  :   here  passed 

your  lives 

Among  the  vines,  when  you  were  young  : 
Here  dwell  your  sires  :  your  household 

fires 
Grow    cold.     Return  !    return ! "    they 

sung. 

Then  each  one  saw  his  kinsman  stand 
Upon  the  shore,  and  wave  his  hand  : 
And  each  grew  sad.     But  still  we  .sung 
Our  ocean-chorus  bold  and  clear  ; 
And  still  upon  our  oars  we  hung, 
And  held  our  course  with  steadfast  cheer. 
"  For  we  are  bound  for  distant  shores," 
We  cried,  and  faster  swept  our  oars  : 
"  We  pine  to  see  the  faces  there 
Of  men  whose  deeds  we  heard  long  since, 
Who   haunt  our  dreams  :  gray  heroes  : 

kings 
Whose  fame    the   wandering    minstrel 

sings  : 

And  maidens,  too,  more  fair  than  ours, 
With  deeper  eyes  and  softer  hair, 


Like  hers  that  left  her  island  bowers 
To  wed  the  sullen  Cornish  Prince 
Who  keeps  his  court  upon  the  hill 
By  the  gray  coasts  of  Tyntagill, 
And  each,  before  he  dies,  must  gain 
Some  fairy-land  across  the  main." 

But  still  "return,  beloved,  return  !" 
The  simple  island-people  sung  : 
And  still  each  mariner's  heart  did  burn, 
As  each  his  kinsman  could  discern, 
Those  dim  green  rocks  among. 

"O'er  you     the   rough  sea-blasts    will 

blow," 
They  sung,   "while  here  the  skies  are 

fair  : 
Our  paths  are  through  the    fields   we 

know  : 
And  yours  you  know  not  where." 

But  we  waved  our  hands  ..."  farewell ! 

farewell ! " 
We  cried  .  .  .  "our  white  sails  flap  the 

mast : 

Our  course  is  set :  our  oars  are  wet : 
One  day,"  we  cried,  "  is  nearly  past : 
One  day  at  sea  !     Farewell !  farewell  ! 
No  more  with  you  we  now  may  dwell ! " 

And  the  next  day  we  were  driving  free 
(With  never  a  sail  in  sight) 
Over  the  face  of  the  mighty  sea, 
And  we  counted  the  stars  next  night 
Rise  over  us  by  two  and  three 
With  melancholy  light : 
A  grave-eyed,  earnest  company,  — 
And  all  round  the  salt  foam  white  ! 

With  this,  she  ceased,  and  sighed  .  .  . 

"  though  I  were  far, 
I  know  yon  moated  iris  would  not  shed 
His  purple  crown  :  yon  clover-field  would 

ripple 

As  merry  in  the  waving  wind  as  now  : 
As  soft  the  Spring  down  this  bare  hill 

would  steal, 
And   in   the   vale  below    fling  all   her 

flowers : 
Each  year  the  wet  primroses  star  the 

woods  : 

And  violets  muffle  the  sharp  rivulets  : 
Round  this  lone  casement's  solitary  panes 
The  wandering  ivy  move  and  mount  each 

year  : 

Each  year  the  red  wh'eat  gleam  near  river- 
banks  : 


382 


ELAYNE   LE   BLANC. 


While,  ah,  with  each  my  memory  from 

the  hearts 
Of  men  would  fade,  and  from  their  lips 

my  ii;uiir. 
( )  which  were  best  —  the  wide,  the  windy 

sea, 
With   golden    gleams   of   undiscovered 

lands, 

Odors,  and  murmurs —  or  the  placid  Port, 
From  wanton  winds,  from  scornful  waves 

secure, 
Under  the   old,   green,  happy  hills  of 

home  ? " 
She  sat  forlorn,  and  pondered.     Night 

was  near,    . 
And,  marshalling  o'er  the  hills  her  dewy 

camps, 
Came  down  the  outposts  of  the  sentinel 

stars. 
All  in  the  owlet  light  she  sat  forlorn. 

Now  hostel,  hall,  and  grange,  that  eve 

were  crammed  : 
The  town  being  choked  to  bursting  of 

the  gates  : 
For  there  the  King  yet  lay  with  all  his 

Earls, 
And  the  Round  Table,   numbering  all 

save  one. 

On  many  a  curving  terrace  which  o'er- 
hung 

Th«  long  gray  river,  swan-like,  through 
the  green 

Of  quaintest  yews,  moved,  pacing  state- 
ly hy» 

The  lovely  ladies  of  King  Arthur's  court. 
Sighing,  she  eyed  them  from  that  lonely 
keep. 

The   Dragon-banners  o'er    the    turrets 

drooped, 

The  heavy  twilight  hanging  in  their  folds. 
And  now  and  then,  from  posterns  in  the 

wall 
The  Knights  stole,  lingering   for  some 

la^t  (Jood-night, 
Whispered   or  sighed    through    closing 

lattices  ; 
Or  paused  with   reverence   of   bending 

plumes, 

And  lips  on  jewelled  fingers  gayly  prest. 
The  silver  cressets  shone  from  pane  to 

pane  : 

And  tapers  flitted  by  with  flitting  forms  : 
Clanged  the  dark  streets  with  clash  of 

iron  heels  : 


Or  fell  a  sound   of  coits   in   clattering 

courts, 
And  drowsy  horse-boys   singing  in  the. 

straw. 

These     noises    floated    upward.      And 

within, 

From  the  great  Hall,  forever  and  anon, 
Brake  gusts  of  revel  ;  snatches  of  wild 

song, 
And  laughter ;  where  her  sire  among  his 

men 
Caroused  between  the  twilight  and  the 

dark. 
The  silence  round  about  her  where  she 

sat, 

Vext  in  itself,  grew  sadder  for  the  sound. 
She  closed  her  eyes  :  before  them  seemed 

to  float 
A  dream  of  lighted  revels,  —  dance  and 

song 

In  Guenver's  palace  :  gorgeous  tourna- 
ments ; 
And  rows  of  glittering  eyes  about  the 

Queen 

(Like  stare  in  galaxies  around  the  moon), 
That  sparkled  recognition  down  below, 
Where  rode  the  Knights  amort  with  lance 

and  plume  ; 

And  each  his  lady's  sleeve  upon  his  helm  : 
Murmuring.  .  .  "none ride  forme.     Am 

I  not  fair, 

Whom   men  call  the  White  Flower  of 
.     Astolat  ? " 

Fur,  far  without,  the  wild  gray  marish 

spread, 
A  heron  startled  from  the  pools,  and 

flapped 
The  water  from  his  wings,  and  skirred 

away. 

The  last  long  limit  of  the  dying  light 
Dropped,    all   on   fire,    behind  an   iron 

cloud  : 
And,  here  and  there,  through  some  wild 

chasm  of  blue, 
Tumbled   a   star.     The   mist  upon   the 

fens 
Thickened.     A  billowy  opal  grew  i'  the 

crofts, 

Fed  on  the  land,  and  sucked  into  itself 
Paling  and  park,  close  copse  and  bush- 

Ifss  down, 
Changing  the  world  for  Fairies. 

Then  the  moon 
In  the  low  east,  unprisoned  from  black 

bars 


TO 


-.—QUEEN   GUENEVERE. 


383 


Of  stagnant  fog  (a  white  light,  wrought 

to  the  full, 
Summed  in  a  perfect  orb)  rose  suddenly 

up 

Upon  the  silence  with  a  great  surprise, 
And  took  the  inert  landscape  unawares. 

White,  white,  the  snaky  river  :  dark  the 

banks  : 
And  dark  the  folding  distance,    where 

her  eyes 
"Were  wildly  turned,  as  though  the  whole 

world  lay 

In  that  far  blackness  over  Carlyel. 
There  she  espied  Sir  Launcelot,  as  he  rode 
His  coal-black  courser  downward  from 

afar, 

For  all  his  armor  glittered  as  he  went, 
And  showed  like  silver  :  and  his  mighty 

shield, 
By  dint  of  knightly  combat  hackt  and 

worn, 
Looked  like   some   cracked  and   frozen 

moon  that  hangs 
By  night  o'er  Baltic  headlands  all  alone. 


TO   : . 

As,  in  lone   fairy-lands,  up  some  rich 

shelf 
Of  golden  sand  the  wild  wave  moaning- 

iy 

Heaps  its  unvalued  sea- wealth,  weed  and 
gem, 

Then  creeps  back  slow  into  the  salt  sad 
sea: 

So  from  my  life's  new  searched  deeps  to 
thee, 

Beloved,  I  cast  these  weed  -  flowers. 
Smile  on  them. 

More  than  they  mean  I  know  not  to  ex- 
press. 

So  I  shrink  back  into  my  old  sad  self, 

Far  from  all  words  where  love  lies  fath- 
omless. 


QUEEN   GUENEVERE. 

THENCE,  up  the  sea-green  floor,  among 

the  stems 
Of  mighty  columns  whose  unmeasured 

shades 

From  aisle  to  aisle,  unheeded  in  the  sun, 
Moved  without  sound,  I,  following  all 

alone 


A  strange  desire  that  drew  me  like  a 

hand, 
Came  unawares  upon  the  Queen. 

She  sat 
In  a  great   silence,   which  her  beauty 

filled 

Full  to  the  heart  of  it,  on  a  black  chair 
Mailed  all  about  with  sullen  gems,  and 

crusts 

Of  sultry  blazonry.    Her  face  was  bowed, 
A  pause  of  slumbrous  beauty,  o'er  the 

light 
Of   some   delicious    thought    new-risen 

above 

The  deeps  of  passion.     Round  her  state- 
ly head 

A  single  circlet  of  the  red  gold  fine 
Burned  free,  from  which,  on  either  side 

streamed  down 
Twilights  of  her  soft  hair,  from  neck  to 

foot. 

Green  was  her  kirtle  as  the  emerolde  is, 
And  stiff  from  hem  to  hem  with  seam* 

of  stones 
Beyond  all  value  ;  which,  from  left  to 

right 

Disparting,  half  revealed  thesnowy gleam 
Of  a  white  robe  of  spotless  samite  pure. 
And  from  the  soft  repression  of  her  zone, 
Which  like  a  light  hand  on  a  lutestring 

pressed 
Harmony  from  its  touch,  flowed  warmly 

back 
The  bounteous  outlines  of   a  glowing 

grace, 

Nor  yet  outflowed  sweet  laws  of  loveli- 
ness. 

Then  did  I  feel  as  one  who,  much  per- 

plext, 
Led  by  strange  legends  and  the  light  of 

stars 

Over  long  regions  of  the  midnight  sand 
Beyond  the  red  tract  of  the  Pyramids, 
Is  suddenly  drawn  to  look  upon  the  sky 
From  sense  of  unfamiliar  light,  and  sees, 
Revealed  against  the  constellated  cope 
The  great  cross  of  the  South. 

The  chamber  round 
Was   dropt  with   arras    green  ;    and   I 

could  hear, 

In  courts  far  off,  a  minstrel  praising  May, 
Who  sang  .  .  .  Si  douce,  si  douce  est  la 

Margarete  I 

To  a  faint  lute.     Upon  the  window-sill, 
Hard  by  a  latoun  bowl  that  blazed  i'  the 

sun 


384      THK   NK(  MOOTED  HEART.  -  HOW  THE  SONG  WAS  MADE. 


lYn-hed  a  strange  fowl,  a  Falcon  Pere- 
grine ; 

With  all  his  feathers  puft  for  pride,  and 
all 

II is  courage  glittering  outward  in  hiseye  ; 

For  he  nau  flown  from  far,  athwart 
strange  lands, 

And  o'er  the  light  of  many  a  setting  sun, 

Lmvd  by  his  love  (such  sovereignty  of 
old 

Had  Beauty  in  all  coasts  of  Christendom  !) 

To  look  into  the  great  eyes  of  the  Queen. 


THE  NEGLECTED  HEART. 

THIS  heart,  you  would  not  have, 

I  laid  up  in  a  grave 

Of  song  :  with  love  enwound  it ; 

And  set  sweet  fancies  blowing  round  it. 

Then  I  to  others  gave  it ; 

Because  you  would  not  have  it. 

"See  you  keep  it  well,"  I  said  ; 

"This  heart's  sleeping  —  is  not  dead  ; 

But  will  wake  some  future  day  : 

See  you  keep  it  while  you  may." 

All  great  Sorrows  in  the  world,  — 
Some  with  crowns  upon  their  heads, 
And  in  regal  pin  pie  furled  ; 
Some  with  rosaries  and  beads  ; 
Some  with  lips  of  scorning,  curled 
At  false  Fortune  ;  some,  in  weeds 
Of  mourning  and  of  widowhood, 
Standing  tearful  and  apart,  — 
Each  one  in  his  several  mood, 
Came  to  take  my  heart. 

Then  in  holy  ground  they  set  it : 
With  melodious  weepings  wet  it : 
And  revered  it  as  they  found  it, 
With  wild  fancies  blowing  round  it. 

And  this  heart  (you  would  not  have) 
Being  not  dead,  though  in  the  grave, 
Worked  miracles  and  marvels  strange, 
And  healed  many  maladies  : 
Giving  sight  to  sealed-up  eyes, 
And  legs  to  feme  men  sick  for  change. 

The  fame  of  it  grew  great  and  greater. 
Then  said  you,  "  Ah,  what 's  the  matter  ? 
How  hath  this  heart  I  would  not  take, 
This  weak  heart  a  child  might  break  — 
This  poor,  foolish  heart  of  his  — 
Since  wou  worship  such  as  this  ? " 


You  bethought  you  then  .  .  .  "Ah  me 
What  if  this  heart,  1  did  not  choose 
To  retain,  hath  found  the  key 
Of  the  kingdom  !  and  I  lose 
A  great  power  .'     Me  he  gave  it : 
Aline  the  right,  and  I  will  have  it." 

Ah,  too  late  !     For  crowds  exehiimed, 
"Ours  it  is  :  and  luitli  been  el;iinn-d. 
Moreover,  where  it  lies,  the  spot 
Is  holy  ground  :  so  enter  not. 
None  but  men  of  mournful  mind,  — 
Men  to  darkened  days  resigned  ; 
Equal  scorn  of  Saint  and  Devil  ; 
Poor  and  outcast ;  halt  and  blind  ; 
Exiles  from  Life's  golden  revel ; 
(Inawing  at  the  bitter  rind  • 

Of  old  griefs  ;  or  else,  confined 
I  ii  proud  cares,  to  serve  and  grind,  — 
May  enter  :  whom  this  heart  shall  cure. 
But  go  thou  by  :  thou  art  not  poor  : 
Nor  defrauded  of  thy  lot : 
Bless  thyself :  but  enter  not ! " 


APPEARANCES. 

WELL,  you  have  learned  to  smile. 
And  no  one  looks  for  traces 
Of  tears  about  your  eyes. 
Your  face  is  like  most  faces. 
And  who  will  ask,  meanwhile, 
If  your  face  your  heart  belies  ? 

Are  you  happy  ?    You  look  so. 
Well,  I  wish  you  what  you  seem. 
Happy  persons  sleep  so  light ! 
In  your  sleep  you  never  dream  ? 
But  who  would  care  to  know 
What  dreams  you  dreamed  last  night  ? 


HOW  THE  SONG   WAS  MADE. 

I  SAT  low  down,  at  midnight,  in  a  vale 
Mysterious  with  the  silence  of  blue 

pines : 

White-cloven  by  a  snaky  river-tail, 
Uncoiled  from  tangled  wefts  of  silver 
twines. 

Out  of  a  crumbling  castle,  on  a  spike 
Of  splintered  rock,  a  mile  of  change- 
less shade 


RETROSPECTIONS.— THE  RUINED  PALACE. 


385 


Gorged  half  the  landscape.      Down  a 

dismal  dike 

Of  black  hills  the  sluiced  moonbeams 
streamed,  and  stayed. 

The  world  lay  like  a  poet  in  a  swoon, 
When   God  is   on    him,    filled   with 

heaven,  all  through,  — 
A  dim  face  full  of  dreams  turned  to  the 

moon, 

With  mild  lips  moist  in  melancholy 
dew. 

I  plucked  bluemugwort,  livid  mandrakes, 

balls 
Of   blossomed  nightshade,    heads   of 

hemlock,  long 

White  grasses,  grown  in  oozy  intervals 
Of  marsh,  to  make  ingredients  for  a 
song : 

A   song  of   mourning  to   embalm   the 

Past,  — 
The  corpse-cold  Past,  —  that  it  should 

not  decay ; 
But  in  dark  vaults  of  memory,  to  the 

last, 

Endure  unchanged :  for  in  some  future 
day 

I  will  bring  my  new  love  to  look  at  it 
(Laying  aside  her  gay  robes  for  a  mo- 
ment) 
That,  seeing  what  love  came  to,  she  may 

sit 

Silent  awhile,  and  muse,  but  make  no 
comment. 


RETROSPECTIONS. 

TO-NIGHT  she  will  dance  at  the  palace, 
With  the  diamonds  in  her  hair  : 

And  the  Prince  will  praise  her  beauty  — 
The  loveliest  lady  there  ! 

But  tones,  at  times,  in  the  music 
Will  bring  back  forgotten  things  : 

And  her  heart  will  fail  her  sometimes, 
When   her  beauty  is  praised  at  the 
King's. 

There  sits  in  his  silent  chamber 

A  stern  and  sorrowful  man  : 
But  a  strange  sweet  dream  comes  to  him, 

While  the  lamp  is  burning  wan, 
25 


Of  a  sunset  among  the  vineyards 

In  a  lone  and  lovely  land, 
And  a  maiden  standing  near  him, 

With  fresh  wild-flowers  in  her  hand. 


THY  VOICE  ACROSS    MY   SPIRIT 
FALLS. 

THY  voice  across  my  spirit  falls 

Like  some  spent  sea-wind  through  dim 

halls 

Of  ocean-kings,  left  bare  and  wide 
(Green   floors  o'er  which  the  sea-weed 

crawls !) 

Where  once,  long  since,  in  festal  pride 
Some  Chief,  who  roved  and  ruled  the  tide, 
Among  his  brethren  reigned  and  died. 

I  dare  not  meet  thine  eyes  ;  for  so, 
In  gazing  there,  I  seem  once  more 
To  lapse  away  through  days  of  yore 
To  homes  where  laugh  and  song  is  o'er, 
Whose  inmates  each  went  long  ago  — 

Like  some  lost  soul,  that  keeps  the  sem- 
blance 

On  its  brow  of  ancient  grace 
Not  all  faded,  wandering  back 
To  silent  chambers,  in  the  track 
Of  the  twilight,  from  the  Place 
Of  retributive  Remembrance. 
Ah,  turn  aside  those  eyes  again  ! 
Their  light  has  less  of  joy  than  pain. 
We  are  not  now  what  we  were  then. 


THE  RUINED  PALACE. 

BROKEN  are  the  Palace  windows  : 

Rotting  is  the  Palace  floor. 
The  damp  wind  lifts  the  arras, 

And  swings  the  creaking  door; 
But  it  only  startles  the  white  owl 

From  his  perch  on  a  monarch's  throne, 
And  the  rat  that  was  gnawing  the  harp- 
strings 

A  Queen  once  played  upon. 

Dare  you  linger  here  at  midnight 

Alone,  when  the  wind  is  about, 
And  the  bat,  and  the  newt,  and  the  viper, 

And  the  creeping  things  come  out  ? 
Beware  of  these  ghostly  chambers  ! 

Search  not  what  my  heart  hath  been, 
Lest  you  find  a  phantom  sitting 

Where  once  there  sat  a  Queen. 


386 


A    VISION   OF   VIRGINS. 


A  VISION  OF  VIRGINS. 
I  HAD  a  vision  of  the  night. 

It  seemed 

There  was  a  long  red  tract  of  barren  land, 

Blockt  in  by  black  hills,  where  a  half- 
moon  dreamed 

Of  morn,  and  whitened. 

Drifts  of  dry  brown  sand, 

This  way  and  that,  were  heapt  below : 
and  flats 

Of   water :  —  glaring  shallows,    where 
strange  bats 

Came  and  went,  and  moths  flickered. 

To  the  right, 

A  dusty  road  that  crept  along  the  waste 

Like  a  white  snake  :  and,  farther  up,  I 
traced 

The  shadow  of  a  great  house,  far  in  sight : 

A  hundred   casements  all   ablaze   with 
light : 

And  forms  that  flit  athwart  them  as  in 
haste  : 

And  a  slow  music,  such  as  sometimes 
kings 

Command  at  mighty  revels,  softly  sent 

From  viol,  and  flute,  and  tabor,  and  the 
strings 

Of  many  a  sweet  and  slumbrous  instru- 
ment 

That  wound  into  the  mute  heart  of  the 
night 

Out  of  that  distance. 

Then  I  could  perceive 

A  glory  pouring  through  an  open  door, 

And  in  the  light  five  women.     I  believe 

They  wore  white  vestments,  all  of  them. 
They  were 

Quite  calm  ;  and  each  still  face  unearth- 
ly fair, 

Unearthly  quiet.     So  like  statues  all, 

Waiting  they  stood  without  that  lighted 
hall  ; 

And  in  their  hands,  like  a  blue  star, 
they  held 

Each  one  a  silver  lamp. 

Then  I  beheld 

A  shadow  in  the  doorway.     And  One 
came 

Crowned  for  a  feast.     I  could  not  see  the 
Face. 

The  Form  was  not  all  human.     As  the 
flame 

Streamed  over  it,  a  presence  took  the 
place 

With  awe. 


He,  turning,  took  them  l>y  tli-  hand, 
And  led  them  each  up  the  white  stairway, 

and 
The  door  closed. 

At  that  moment  the  moon  dipped 

Behind  a  rag  of  purple  vapor,  ript 

Off  a  great  cloud,  some  dead  wind,  ere  it 
spent 

Its  last  breath,  had  blown  open,  and  so 
rent 

You  saw  behind  blue  pools  of  light,  and 
there 

A  wild  star  swimming  in  the  lurid  air. 

The  dream  was  darkened.     And  a  sense 
of  loss 

Fell  like  a  nightmare  on  the  land  :   be- 
cause 

The  moon  yet  lingered  in  her  cloud- 
eclipse. 

Then,  in  the  dark,  swelled  sullenly  across 

The  waste  a  wail  of  women. 

Her  blue  lips 

The  moon  drew  up  out  of  the  cloud. 

Again 

I  had  a  vision  on  that  midnight  plain. 

Five  women  :  and  the  beauty  of  despair 
Upon  their  faces  :  locks  of  wUd  wet  hair, 
Clammy  with  anguish,  wandered  low 

and  loose 
O'er  their  bare  breasts,  that  seemed  toe 

filled  with  trouble 
To  feel  the  damp  crawl  of  the  midnight 

dews 
That   trickled   down   them.     One   was 

bent  half  double, 
A  dismayed  heap,  that  hung  o'er  the  last 

spark 

Of  a  lamp  slowly  dving.     As  she  blew 
The  dull  light  redder,  and  the  dry  wick 

flew 

In  crumbling  sparkles  all  about  the  dark, 
I  saw  a  light  of  horror  in  her  eyes  ; 
A  wild  light  on  her  flusht  cheek  ;  a  wild 

white 

On  her  dry  lips  ;  an  agony  of  surprise 
Fearfully  fair. 

The  lamp  dropped.     From  my  sight 
She  fell  into  the  dark. 

Beside  her,  sat 
One  without  motion  :  and  her  stern  face 

flat 
Against  the  dark  sky. 

One,  as  still  as  death, 
Hollowed  her  hands  about  her  lamp,  for 

fear 


LEOLINE. 


387 


Some  motion  of  the  midnight,  or  her 

breath, 

Should  fan  out  the  last  flicker.     Rosy- 
clear 
The  light  oozed,  through  her  fingers,  o'er 

her  face. 

There  was  a  ruined  beauty  hovering  there 
Over  deep  pain,  and,  dasht  with  lurid 

grace 
A  waning  bloom. 

The  light  grew  dim  and  blear  : 
And  she,  too,  slowly  darkened  in   her 

place. 
Another,  with  her  white  hands  hotly 

lockt 

About  her  damp  knees,  muttering  mad- 
ness, rocked 
Forward  and   backward.      But  at  last 

she  stopped, 
And  her  dark   head  upon   her   bosom 

dropped 
Motionless. 

Then  one  rose  up  with  a  cry 
To  the  great  moon ;   and  stretched  a 

wrathful  arm 

Of  wild  expostulation  to  the  sky, 
Murmuring,  "  These  earth-lamps  fail  us  ! 

and  what  harm  ? 
Does  not  the  moon  shine  ?     Let  us  rise 

and  haste 
To  meet  the  Bridegroom  yonder  o'er  the 

waste  ! 
For  now  I  seem  to  catch  once  more  the 

tone 
Of  viols  on  the  night.     'T  were  better 

done, 

At  worst,  to  perish  near  the  golden  gate, 
And  fall  in  sight  of  glory  one  by  one, 
Than  here  all  night  upon  the  wild,  to 

wait 
Uncertain  ills.     Away  !  the  hour  is  late ! " 

Again  the  moon  dipped. 

I  could  see  no  more. 

Not  the  least  gleam  of  light  did  heaven 
afford. 

At  last,  I  heard  a  knocking  on  a  door, 
And   some  one  crying,  "  Open  to   us, 

Lord  ! " 
There  was  an  awful  pause. 

I  heard  my  heart 
Beat. 
Then  a  Voice — "I  know  you  not. 

Depart." 
I  caught,  within,  a  glimpse  of  glory. 

And 


The  door  closed. 

Still  in  darkness  dreamed  the  land. 
I  could  not  see  those  women.     Not  a 

breath  ! 
Darkness,   and   awe :    a  darkness  more 

than  death. 
The  darkness  took  them.    ***** 


LEOLINE. 

IN  the  molten-golden  moonlight, 

In  the  deep  grass  warm  and  dry, 
We  watched  the  fire-fly  rise  and  swim 

In  floating  sparkles  by. 
All  night  the  hearts  of  nightingales, 

Song-steeping,  slumbrous  leaves, 
Flowed  to  us  in  the  shadow  there 

Below  the  cottage-eaves. 

We  sang  our  songs  together 

Till  the  stars  shook  in  the  skies. 
We  spoke  —  we  spoke  of  common  things, 

Yet  the  tears  were  in  our  eyes. 
And  my  hand,  —  I  know  it  trembled 

To  each  light  warm  touch  of  thine. 
But  we  were  friends,  and  only  friends, 

My  sweet  friend,  Leoline  ! 

How  large  the  white  moon  looked,  Dear  ! 

There  has  not  ever  been 
Since  those  old  nights  the  same  great 
light 

In  the  moons  which  I  have  seen. 
I  often,  wonder,  when  I  think, 

If  you  have  thought  so  too, 
And  the  moonlight  has  grown  dimmer, 
Dear, 

Than  it  used  to  be  to  you. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  warm  west- 
wind 

Comes  faint  across  the  sea, 
It  seems  that  you  have  breathed  on  it, 

So  sweet  it  comes  to  me  : 
And  sometimes,   when  the  long  light 
wanes 

In  one  deep  crimson  line, 
I  muse,  "  and  does  she  watch  it  too, 

Far  off,  sweet  Leoline  ? " 

And  often,  leaning  all  day  long 

My  head  upon  my  hands, 
My  heart  aches  for  the  vanisht  time 

In  the  far  fair  foreign  lauds  : 


388 


SPRING  AND   WINTER. 


Thinking  sadly  —  "  Is  she  happy  ?! 

Has  si io  tears  for  those  old  hours  ? 
Ami  the  cottage  in  the  starlight  ? 

And  the  songs  among  the  flowers  ? " 

One  night  we  sat  below  the  porch, 

Ami  out  in  that  warm  air, 
A  tirc-lly,  like  a  dying  star, 

Fell  tangled  in  her  hair  ; 
But  I  kissed  him  lightly  off  again, 

And  he  glittered  up  the  vine, 
And  ilicil  into  the  darkness 

For  the  love  of  Leoline  ! 

Between  two  songs  of  Petrarch 

I  've  a  purple  rose-leaf  prest, 
More  sweet  than  common  rose-leaves, 

For  it  once  lay  in  her  breast. 
When  she  gave  me  that  her  eyes  were  wet, 

The  rose  was  full  of  dew. 
The  rose  is  withered  long  ago  : 

The  page  is  blistered  too. 

There 's  a  blue  flower  in  my  garden, 

The  bee  loves  more  than  all : 
The  bee  and  I,  we  love  it  both, 

Though  it  is  frail  and  small. 
She  loved  it  too,  —  long,  long  ago  ! 

Her  love  was  less  than  mine. 
Still  we  are  friends,  but  only  friends, 

My  lost  love,  Leoline  ! 


SPRING  AND  WINTER. 

THE  world  buds  every  year : 

But  the  heart  just  once,  and  when 

The  blossom  falls  off  sere 

No  new  blossom  comes  again. 

Ah,  the  rose  goes  with  the  wind  : 

But  the  thorns  remain  behind. 

Was  it  well  in  him,  if  he 

Felt  not  love,  to  speak  of  love  so  ? 
If  he  still  unmoved  must  be, 

Was  it  nobly  sought  to  move  so  ? 
—  Pluck  the  flower,  and  yet  not  weur  it- 
Spurn,  despise  it,  yet  not  spare  it  ? 

Need  he  say  that  I  was  fair, 
With  such  meaning  in  his  tone, 

Just  to  speak  of  one  whose  hair 
Had  the  same  tinge  as  my  own  ? 

Pluck  my  life  up,  root  and  bloom, 

Just  to  plant  it  on  her  tomb  ? 


And  she  M  scarce  so  fair  a  face 
(So  he  used  to  say)  as  mine  : 

And  her  fonn  had  far  less  ^race  : 
And  her  brow  was  far  less  tine  : 

But  't  was  just  that  he  loved  then 

More  than  he  can  love  again. 

Why,  if  Beauty  could  not  bind  him, 
Need  he  praise  me,  speaking  low  : 

Use  my  face  just  to  remind  him 

How  no  face  could  please  him  now  ? 

Why,  if  loving  could  not  move  him, 

Did  he  teach  me  still  to  love  him  ? 

And  he  said  my  eyes  were  bright, 
But  his  own,  he  said,  were  dim  : 

And  my  hand,  he  said,  was  white, 
But  what  was  that  to  him  ? 

"  For,"  he  said,  "in  gazing  at  you, 

I  seem  gazing  at  a  statue." 

"  Yes  !  "  he  said,  "  he  had  grown  wise 
now  : 

He  had  suffered  much  of  yore  : 
But  a  fair  face  to  his  eyes  now, 

Was  a  fair  face,  and  no  more. 
Yet  the  anguish  and  the  bliss, 
And  the  dream  too,  had  been  his." 

Then,  why  talk  of  "lost  romances  " 
Being  "  sick  of  sentiment !  " 

And  what  meant  those  tones  and  glances 
If  real  love  was  never  meant  ? 

Why,  if  his  own  youth  were  withered, 

Must  mine  also  have  been  gathered  ? 

Why  those  words  a  thought  too  tender 
For  the  commonplaces  spoken  ? 

Looks  whose  meaning  seemed  to  render 
Help  to  words  when  speech  came  bro- 
ken ? 

Why  so  late  in  July  moonlight 

Just  to  say  what 's  said  by  noonlight  ? 

And  why  praise  my  youth  for  gladness, 
Keeping  something  in  his  smile 

Which  turned  all  my  youth  to  sadness, 
He  still  smiling  all  the  while  I 

Since,  when  so  my  youth  was  over 

He  said  — ' '  Seek  some  younger  lover  ! " 

"  For  the  world  buds  once  a  year, 
But  the  heart  just  once,"  he  said. 

True  !  ...  so  now  that  Spring  is  here 
All  my  flowers,  like  his,  are  dead. 

And  the  rose  drops  in  the  wind. 

But  the  thorns  remain  behind. 


KING  HERMANDIAZ.— THE  SWALLOW. 


389 


KING  HERMANDIAZ. 

THEN,  standing  by  the  shore,  I  saw  the 

moon 
Change  hue,  and  dwindle  in  the  west,  as 

when 
Warm  looks  fade  inward  out  of  dying 

eyes, 
And  the  dim  sea  began  to  moan. 

I  knew 
My  hour  had  come,  and  to  the  bark  I 

went. 
Still  were  the  stately  decks,  and  hung 

with  silk 
Of   stoled  crimson :   at  the   mast-head 

burned 
A  steadfast  fire  with  influence  like   a 

star, 
And  underneath   a  couch   of  gold.     I 

loosed 
The  dripping  chain.     There  was  not  any 

wind  : 

But  all  at  once  the  magic  sails  began 
To  belly  and  heave,  and  like  a  bat  that 

wakes 
And  flits  by  night,  beneath  her  swarthy 

wings 
The  black  ship  rocked  and  moved.     I 

heard  anon 

A  humming  in  the  cordage  and  a  sound 
Like  bees  in  summer,  and  the  bark  went 

on, 

And  on,  and  on,  until  at  last  the  world 
Was  rolled  away  and  folded  out  of  sight, 
And  I  was  all  alone  on  the  great  sea. 
There  a  deep  awe  fell  on  my  spirit.     My 

wound 

Began  to  bite.     I,  gazing  round,  beheld 
A  lady  sitting  silent  at  the  helm, 
A  woman  white  as  death,  and  fair  as 

dreams. 
I  would  have  asked  her  "  Whither  do  we 

sail  ? " 
And  "  how  ? "  but  that  my  fear  clung  at 

my  heart, 
And  held  me  still.     She,  answering  my 

doubt, 
Said  slowly,  "  To  the  Isle  of  Avalon." 

And  straightway  we  were  nigh  a  strand 

all  gold, 
That  glittered  in  the  moon  between  the 

dusk 
Of   hanging    bowers    made    rich    with 

blooms  and  balms, 
From  which  faint  gusts  came  to  me  ; 

and  I  heard 


A  sound  of  kites  among  the  vales,  and 

songs 
And  voices  faint  like  voices  through  a 

dream 
That  said  or  seemed  to  say,  "  Hail,  Her- 

mandiaz  ! " 


SONG. 

IN  the  warm,  black  mill-pool  winking, 
The  first  doubtful  star  shines  blue  : 

And  alone  here  I  lie  thinking 
0  such  happy  thoughts  of  you  ! 

Up  the  porch  the  roses  clamber, 
And  the  flowers  we  sowed  last  June  ; 

And  the  casement  of  your  chamber 
Shines  between  them  to  the  moon. 

Look  out,  Love  !  fling  wide  the  lattice  : 
Wind  the  red  rose  in  your  hair, 

And  the  little  white  clematis 

Which  I  plucked  for  you  to  wear  : 

Or  come  down,  and  let  me  hear  you 
Singing  in  the  scented  grass, 

Through  tall  cowslips  nodding  near  you, 
Just  to  touch  you  as  you  pass. 

For,  where  you  pass,  the  air 

With  warm  hints  of  love  grows  wise  : 
You  —  the  dew  on  your  dim  hair, 

And  the  smile  in  your  soft  eyes  ! 

From  the  hayfield  comes  your  brother ; 

There  your  sisters  stand  together, 
Singing  clear  to  one  another 

Through  the  dark  blue  summer  weather, 

And  the  maid  the  latch  is  clinking, 
As  she  lets  her  lover  through  : 

But  alone,  Love,  I  lie  thinking 
0  such  tender  thoughts  of  you  ! 


THE  SWALLOW. 

0  SWALLOW  chirping  in  the  sparkling 

eaves, 
Why  hast  thou  left  far  south  thy  fairy 

homes, 

To  build  between  these  drenched  April- 
leaves, 

And  sing  me  songs  of  Spring  before  it 
comes  ? 


390 


CONTRABAND.  —  EVENING. 


Too    soon  thou   singest !      Yon    black 

stubborn  thorn 

Bursts  not  a  bud  :  the  sueaping  wind 
drifts  on. 

She  that  once  flung  thee  crumbs,  and  in 

the  morn 

Sang  from  the  lattice    where    thou 
sing'st,  is  gone. 

Here  is  no  Spring.     Thy  flight  yet  fur- 
ther follow. 

Fly  off,  vain  swallow  ! 

Thou  com'st  to  mock  me  with  remem- 
bered tilings. 
I  love  thee  not,  0  bird  for  me  too 

gay- 

That  which  I  want  thou  hast,  —  the  gift 

of  wings  : 
Grief  —  which  I  have  —  thou  hast  not. 

Fly  away  ! 
What  hath  my  roof  for  thee  ?    My  cold 

dark  r»of, 
Beneath  whose  weeping  thatch  thine 

eggs  will  freeze  ! 
Summer  will    halt   not  here,    so  keep 

aloof. 
Others  are  gone  ;  go  thou.     In  those 

wet  trees 
I  see  no  Spring,  though  thou  still  singest 

of  it. 
Fare  hence,  false  prophet ! 


CONTRABAND. 

A  HEAP  of  low,  dark,  rocky  coast, 
Where  the  blue-black  sea  sleeps  smooth 

and  even : 
And  the  sun,  just  over  the   reefs  at 

most, 

In  the  amber  part  of   a  pale  blue 
.  heaven : 

A  village  asleep  below  the  pines, 

Hid  up  the  gray  shore  from  the  low 

slow  sun  : 
And  a  maiden  that  lingers  among  the 

vines, 

With  her  feet  in  the  dews,  and  her 
locks  undone  : 

The    half-moon    melting    out    of    the 

sky  ; 

And,  just  to  be  seen  still,  a  star  here, 
a  star  there, 


Faint,  high  up  in  the  heart  of  the  heaven ; 

so  hign 

And  so  faint,  you  can  scarcely  be  sure 
that  they  are  there. 

And  one  of  that  small,  black,  raking 

craft ; 
Two  swivel  guns  on  a  round  deck 

handy ; 
And  a  great  sloop  sail  with  the  wind 

abaft ; 

And  four  brown  thieves  round  a  cask 
of  brandy. 

That 's  my  life,  as  I  left  it  last. 
And  what  it  may  be  henceforth  I  know 

not. 

But  all  that  I  keep  of  the  merry  Past 
Are  trifles  like  these,  which  I  care  t» 
show  not :  — 

A  leathern    flask,   and  a  necklace    of 

pearl ; 
These  rusty  pistols,  this  tattered  chart, 

Friend, 

And  the  soft  dark  half  of  a  raven  curl ; 
And,   at  evening,   the  thought  of  a 
true,  true  heart,  Friend. 


EVENING. 

ALREADY   evening !      In  the   duskiest 

nook 

Of  yon  dusk  corner,  under  the  Death's- 
head, 
Between    the    alembecs,   thrust   this 

legended, 

And  iron-bound,  and  melancholy  book, 
For  I  will  read  no  longer.  The  loud  brook 
Shelves  his  sharp  light   up   shallow 

banks  thin-spread ; 
The  slumbrous  west  grows  slowly  red,, 

and  red  : 
Up  from  the  ripened  corn  her  silver  hook 

The  moon  is  lifting  :  and  deliciously 
Along  the  warm  blue  hills  the  day  de- 
clines : 
The  first   star    brightens  while    she 

waits  for  me, 
And  round  her  swelling  heart  the  zone 

grows  tight : 
Musing,  half-sad,  in  her  soft  hair  she 

twines 

The  white  rose,  whispering  "he  will- 
come  to-night ! " 


ADON.  —  A   BIRD  AT   SUNSET. 


391 


ADON. 

I  WILL  not  weep  for  Adon  T 
I  will  not  waste  my  breath  to  draw  thick 

sighs 
For  Spring's  dead  greenness.     All  the 

orient  skies 
Are  husht,  and  breathing  out  a  bright 

surprise 
Round  morning's  marshalling  star :  Rise, 

Eos,  rise  ! 
Day's   dazzling   spears    are   up :    the 

faint  stars  fade  on 
The  white  hills,  —  cold,  like  Adon  ! 

O'er  crag,  and  spar,  and  splinter 
Break  down,  and  roll  the  amber  mist, 

stern  light. 
The  black  pines  dream  of  dawn.     The 

skirts  of  night 
Are  ravelled  in  the  East.     And  planted 

bright 
fn  heaven,  the  roots  of  ice  shine,  sharp 

and  white, 
In  frozen  ray,  and  spar,  and  spike,  and 

splinter. 
Within  me  and  without,  all 's  Winter. 

Why  should  I  weep  for  Adon  ? 
Am  I,  because  the  sweet  Past  is  no  more, 
Dead,  as  the  leaves  upon  the  graves  of 

yore? 
I  will  breathe  boldly,  though  the  air  be 

frore 
With  freezing  fire.     Life  still  beats  at 

the  core 
Of  the  world's  heart,  though  Death 

his  awe  hath  laid  on 
This  dumb  white  corpse  of  Adon. 


THE  PROPHET. 

WHEN  the  East  lightens  with  strange 

hints  of  morn, 

The  first  tinge  of  the  growing  glory  takes 
The  cold  crown  of  some  husht  high  alp 

forlorn, 
While  yet  o'er  vales  below  the  dark  is 

spread. 
Even  so  the  dawning  Age,   in  silence, 

breaks, 

0  solitary  soul,  on  thy  still  head : 
And  we,  that  watch  below  with  reverent 

fear, 
Seeing  thee  crowned,  do  know  that  day 

is  near. 


WEALTH. 

WAS  it  not  enough  to  dream  the  day  to 

death 

Grandly  ?  and  finely  feed  on  faint  per- 
fumes ? 
Between  the   heavy  lilacs  draw  thick 

breath, 

While  the  noon  hummed  from  glowing 
citron-glooms  ? 

Or  walk  with  Morning  in  these  dewy 

bowers, 
'Mid  sheaved  lilies,  and  the  moth-loved 

lips 

Of  purple  asters,  bearded  flat  sunflowers, 
And  milk-white  crumpled  pinks  with 
blood  i'  the  tips  ? 

But  I  must  also,  gazing  upon  thee, 
Pine  with  delicious  pain,  and  subtle 

smart, 
Till  I  felt  heavy  immortality, 

Laden  with  looks  of  thine,  weigh  on 
my  heart ! 


WANT. 

You  swore  you  loved  me  all  last  June  : 
And  now  December 's  come  and  gone. 

The  Summer  went  with  you  —  too  soon. 
The  Winter  goes  —  alone. 

Next  Spring  the  leaves  will  all  be  green  : 
But  love  like  ours,  once  turned  to  pain, 

Can  be  no  more  what  it  hath  been, 
Though  roses  bloom  again. 

Return,  return  the  unvalued  wealth 
I  gave  !  which  scarcely  profits  you  — 

The  heart 's  lost  youth  —  the  soul 's  lost 

health  — 
In  vain  !  .  .  .  false  friend,  adieu  ! 

I  keep  one  faded  violet 

Of  all  once  ours,  —  you  left  no  more. 
What  I  have  lost  I  may  forget, 

But  vou  cannot  restore. 


A  BIRD  AT  SUNSET. 

WILD  bird,  that  wingest  wide  the  glim- 
mering moors, 

Whither,  by  belts  of  yellowing  woods 
»wav  ? 


392 


IN   TRAVEL.  —  CHANGES. 


With  pausing  sunset  thy  wild  heart  al- 
lures 
Deep  into  dying  day  ? 

Would  that  my  heart,  on  wings  like 

thine,  could  pass 
Where  stars  their  light  in  rosy  regions 

lose,  — 
A  happy  shadow  o'er  the  warm  brown 

grass, 
Falling  with  falling  dews  ! 

Hast  thou,  like  me,  some  true-love  of 

thine  own, 

In  fairy  lands  beyond  the  utmost  seas  ; 
Who  there,  unsolaced,   yearns  for  thee 

alone, 
And  sings  to  silent  trees  ? 

0  tell  that  woodbird  that  the  Summer 

grieves, 
And   the  suns  darken  and  the  days 

grow  cold  ; 
And,  tell  her,  love  will  fade  with  fading 

leaves, 
And  cease  in  common  mould. 

Fly  from  the  winter  of  the  world  to  her  ! 

Fly,    happy  bird !     I  follow   in   thy 

flight, 
Till  thou  art  lost  o'er  yonder  fringe  of  fir 

In  baths  of  crimson  light. 

My  love  is  dying  far  away  from  me. 

She  sits  and   saddens  in   the  fading 

west. 
For  her  I  mourn  all  day,  and  pine  to  be 

At  night  upon  her  breast. 


IN  TRAVEL. 

Now  our  white  sail  flutters  down  : 
Now  it  broadly  takes  the  breeze  : 
Now  the  wharves  upon  the  town, 
Lessening,  leave  us  by  degrees. 
Blithely  blows  the  morning,  shaking 
On  your  cheek  the  loosened  curls  : 
Round  our  prow  the  cleft  wave,  breaking, 
Tumbles  off  in  heaped  pearls, 
Which  in  forks  of  foam  unite, 
And  run  seething  out  to  sea, 
Where  o'er  gleams  of  briny  light, 
Dip  the  dancing  gulls  in  glee. 
Now  the  mountain  serpentine 
Slips  out  many  a  snaky  line 
Down  the  dark  blue  ocean -spine. 


From  the  boatside,  while  we  pass, 
I  can  see,  as  in  a  glass, 
Pirates  on  the  flat  sea-sand, 
Carousing  en-  they  put  from  land  ; 
And  the  purple-pointed  crests 
Of  hills  whereon  the  morning  rests 
Whose  ethereal  vivid  peaks 
Glimmer  in  the  lucid  creeks. 
Now  these  wind  away  ;  and  now 
Hamlets  up  the  mountain-brow 
Peep  and  peer  from  roof  to  roof ; 
And  gray  castle-walls  aloof 
O'er  wide  vineyards  just  in  grape, 
From  whose  serfs  old  Barons  held 
Tax  and  toll  in  feudal  eld, 
Creep  out  of  the  uncoiling  cape. 
Now  the  long  low  layer  of  mist 
A  slow  trouble  rolls  and  lifts, 
With  a  broken  billowy  motion, 
From  the  rocks  and  from  the  rifts, 
Laying  bare,  just  here  and  there, 
Black  stone-pines,  at  morn  dew-kist 
By  salt  winds  from  bound  to  bound 
Of  the  great  sea  freshening  round  ; 
Wattled  folds  on  bleak  brown  downs 
Sloping  high  o'er  sleepy  towns  ; 
Lengths  of  shore  and  breadths  of  ocean. 

Love,  lean  here  upon  my  shoulder, 
And  look  yonder,  love,  with  me  : 
Now  I  think  that  I  can  see 
In  the  merry  market-places 
Sudden  warmths  of  sunny  faces  : 
Many  a  lovely  laughing  maiden 
Bearing  on  her  loose  dark  locks 
Rich  fruit-baskets  heavy-laden, 
In  and  out  among  the  rocks, 
Knowing  not  that  we  behold  her. 
Now,  love,  tell  me,  can  you  hear, 
Growing  nearer,  and  more  near, 
Sound  of  song,  and  plash  of  oar, 
From  wild  bays,  ana  inlets  hoar, 
While  above  yon  isles  afar 
Ghostlike  sinks  last  night's  last  star  ? 


CHANGES. 

WHOM  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  sel- 
dom wed. 
Time  rules  us  all.     And  Life,  indeed, 

is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope 

was  dead. 

And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose 
our  lot. 


JUDICIUM   PARIDIS. 


393 


Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard  to 

bear : 
Much  given  away  which  it  were  sweet 

to  keep. 
God  help  us  all !  who  need,  indeed,  His 

care. 

And  yet,  I  know,  the  Shepherd  loves 
His  sheep. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 
Upon    my   knee    his    earliest    infant 

prayer. 

He  has  his  father's  eager  eyes,  I  know. 
And,  they  say  too,  his  mother's  sun- 
ny hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon  my 

knee, 
And  I  can  feel  his  light  breath  come 

and  go, 
I  think  of  one  (Heaven  help  and  pity 

me  !) 

Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I  loved, 
long  ago. 

Who  might  have  been  .  .  .  ah,  what  I 

dare  not  think  ! 
We  all  are  changed.     God  judges  for 

us  best. 

God  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not  shrink, 
And  trust  in  heaven  humbly  for  the 
rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some  appear 
Too  cold  at  times  ;  and  some  too  gay 

and  light. 
Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.     Some  woes  are 

hard  to  bear. 

Who  knows  the  Past  ?  and  who  can 
judge  us  right  ? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might 

have  been, 
And  not  by  what  we  are,  too  apt  to 

fall !  \ 

My  little  child  —  he  sleeps  and  smiles 

between 

These  thoughts  and  me.     In  heaven 
we  shall  know  all ! 


JUDICIUM   PARIDIS. 

I  SAID,  when  young,  "  Beauty  's  the  su- 
preme joy. 

Her  I  will  choose,  and  in  all  forms 
will  face  her ; 


Eye  to  eye,  lip  to  lip,  and  so  embrace 

her 

With  my   whole  heart."     I    said  this 
being  a  boy. 

"  First,  I  will  seek  her,  —  naked,  or  clad 

only 
In  her  own  godhead,  as  I  know  of 

yore 
Great  bards  beheld  her."     So  by  sea 

and  shore 

I  sought  her,  and  among  the  mountains 
lonely. 

"  There  be  great  sunsets  in  the  wondrous 

West; 

And  marvel  in  the  orbings  of  the  moon; 
And  glory  in  the  jubilees  of  June  ; 
And  power  in  the  deep  ocean.     For  the 
rest, 

"Green-glaring  glaciers;  purple  clouds 

of  pine 

White  walls  of  ever-roaring  cataracts  ; 
Blue  thunder    drifting  over    thirsty 

tracts  ; 

The  homes  of  eagles  ;  these,  too,  are  di- 
vine, 

"And  terror  shall  not  daunt  me — so  it  be 
Beautiful  —  or  in  storm  or  in  eclipse  : 
Rocking  pink  shells,  or  wrecking 
freighted  ships, 

I  shall  not  shrink  to  find  her  in  the  sea. 

"Next,  I  will  seek  her — in  all  shapes 

of  wood, 

Or  brass,  or  marble  ;  or  in  colors  clad  ; 
And  sensuous  lines,  to  make  my  spirit 

glad. 

And  she  shall  change  her  dress   with 
every  mood. 

"Rose-latticed  casements, lone  in  summer 

lands  — 
Some  witch's  bower  :  pale  sailors  on 

the  marge 

Of  magic  seas,  in  an  enchanted  barge 
Stranded,  at  sunset,  uponjewelled  sands  : 

"  White  nymphs  among  the  lilies  :  shep- 
herd kings : 
And  pink-hooved  Fawns  :  and  mooned 

Endymions  : 
From   every   channel  through   which 

Beauty  runs 
To  fertilize  the  world  with  lovely  thing*. 


394 


JUDICIUM   PARIDIS. 


"  I  will  draw  freely,  and  be  satisfied. 
Also,  all  legends  of  her  apparition 
To  men,  in  earliest  times,  in  each  con- 
dition, 

I  will  inscribe  on  portraits  of  my  bride. 

"Then,  that  no  single  sense  of  her  be 

wanting, 

Music  ;  and  all   voluptuous  combina- 
tions 
Of  sound,  with  their  melodious  pal- 

pitations 

To  charm   the  ear,  the  cells  of  fancy 
haunting. 

"And  in  her  courts  my  life  shall  be 

outrolled 

As  one  unfurls  some  gorgeous  tapestry, 
Wrought    o'er    with    old    Olympian 

heraldry, 
All  purple-woven  stiff  with  blazing  gold. 

"And  I  will  choose  no  sight  for  tears  to 

flow  : 

I  will  not  look  at  sorrow  :  I  will  see 
Nothing  less  fair  and  full  of  majesty 

Than  young  Apollo  leaning  on  his  bow. 

"And  I  will  let  things  come  and  go: 

nor  range 
For  knowledge  :  but  from  moments 

pluck  delight, 
The  while  the  great  days  ope  and  shut 

in  light, 

And  wax  and  wane  about  me,  rich  with 
change. 

"Some  cup  of  dim  hills,  where  a  white 

moon  lies, 
Propt  out  of  weary  skies  without  a 

breath, 

In  a  great  pool :  a  slumbrous  vale  be- 
neath : 

And  blue  damps  prickling  into  white 
fire-flies  : 

' '  Some  sunset  vision  of  an  Oread,  less 
Than  half  an  hour  ere  moonrise  caught 

asleep 
With  a  flusht   cheek,  among  crusht 

violets  deep,  — 

A    warm    half-glimpse    of   milk-white 
nakedness, 

"  On   sumptuous    summer  eves :    shall 

wake  for  me 
Kaj>ture  from  all  the  various  stops  of  life ; 


Making  it  like  some  charmed  Arcadian 

fife 
Filled  by  a  wood-god  with  his  ecstasy." 

These  things  I  said  while  I  was  yet  a  boy, 
And  the  world    showed  as  between 

dream  and  waking 
A  man  may  see  the  face  he  loves.     So, 

breaking 

Silence,  I  cried  .  .  .  "Thou  art  the  su- 
preme Joy  ! " 

My  spirit,  as  a  lark  hid  near  the  sun, 
Carolled  at  morning.     But  ere  she  had 

dropt 
Half  down  the  rainbow-colored  years 

that  propped 

Her  gold  cloud  up,  and  broadly,  one  by 
one 

The  world's  great  harvest-lands  broke  on 

her  eye, 
She  changed  her  tone,  .  .  .  "What  is 

it  I  may  keep  ? 
For  look  here,  how  the  merry  reapers 

reap : 

Even   children  glean  :    and   each  puts 
something  by. 

"The  pomps  of  morning  pass:   when 

evening  comes, 
What  is  retained  of  these  which  I  may 

show? 

If  for  the  hills  I  leave  the  fields  below 
I  fear  to  die  an  exile  from  men's  homes. 

"Though  here  I  see  the  orient  pageants 

pass, 

I  am  not  richer  than  the  merest  hind 
That  toils  below,  all  day,  among  his 

kind, 

And  clinks  at  eve  glad  horns  in  the  dry 
grass." 

Then,  pondering  long,  at  length  I  made 

confession. 
"I  have  erred  much,  rejecting  all  that 

man  did : 

For  all   my  pains  I  shall  go  empty- 
handed  : 

And  Beauty,  of  its  nature  foils  posses- 
sion." 

Thereafter,   I  said  ..."  Knowledge  is 

most  fair. 
Surely   to    know   is  better    than    to 


JUDICIUM   PARIDIS. 


395 


To  see  is  loss  :  to  know  is  gain  :  and  we 
Grow  old.     I  will  store  thriftily,  with 
care ." 

In  which  mood  I  endured  for  many  years, 
Valuing  all   things  for  their  further 

uses  : 
And  seeking  knowledge  at  all  open 

sluices : 

Though  oft  the  stream  turned  brackish 
with  my  tears. 

Yet  not  the  less,  for  years  in  this  same 

mood 

I  rested  :  nor  from  any  object  turned 
That  had  its  secret  to  be  spelled  and 

learned, 
Murmuring  ever,   "Knowledge  is  most 


Unto  which  end  I  shunned  the  revelling 
And  ignorant  crowd,  that  eat  the  fruits 

and  die  : 

And  called  out  Plato  from  his  century 
To  be  my  helpmate  :  and  made  Homer 
sing. 

Until  the  awful  Past  in  gathered  heaps 
Weighed  on  my  brain,  and  sunk  into 

my  soul, 
And   saddened  through    my  nature, 

till  the  whole 

Of  life  was  darkened  downward  to  the 
deeps. 

And,    wave  on   wave,   the  melancholy 

ages 
Crept  o'er  my  spirit  :  and  the  years 

displaced 
The  landmarks  of  the  days :  life  waned, 

effaced. 
From  action  by  the  sorrows  of  the  sages  : 

And  my  identity  became  at  last 
The  record   of   those   others :    or,    if 

more, 

A  hollow  shell  the  sea  sung  in  :  a  shore 
Of  footprints  which   the  waves  washed 
from  it  fast. 

And  all  was  as  a  dream  whence,  holding 

breath, 
It  seemed,  at  times,  just  possible  to 

break 
By  some  wild  nervous  effort,  with  a 

shriek, 
Into  the  real  world  of  life  and  death. 


But  that  thought  saved  me.     Through 

the  dark  1  screamed 
Against  the  darkness,  and  the  dark- 
ness broke, 
And  broke  that  nightmare  :   back  to 

life  I  woke, 

Though  weary  with  the  dream  which  I 
had  dreamed. 

0  life  !  life  !  life  !     With  laughter  and 

with  tears 
I  tried  myself :    I  knew  that  I  had 

need 

Of  pain  to  prove  that  this  was  life  in- 
deed, 

With  its  warm  privilege  of  hopes  and 
fears. 

0  Love  of  man  made  Life  of  man,  that 

saves  ! 
0  man,  that  standest  looking  on  the 

light  : 
That  standest  on   the  forces  of  the 

night : 

That  standest  up  between  the  stars  and 
graves  ! 

0  man  !  by  man's  dread  privilege  of  pain, 
Dare  not  to  scorn  thine  own  soul  nor 

thy  brother's  : 
Though  thou  be  more  or  less  than  all 

the  others. 

Man's  life  is  all  too  sad  for  man's  dis- 
dain. 

The  smiles  of  seraphs  are  less  awful  far 
Than  are  the  tears  of  this  humanity, 
That  sound,  in  dropping,  through 

Eternity, 

Heard  in  God's  ear  beyond  the  furthest 
star. 

If  that  be  true,  — the  hereditary  hate 
Of  Love's  lost  Rebel,  since  the  worlds 

began, — 
The  very  Fiend,   in  hating,   honors 

Man  : 

Flattering    with    Devil-homage    Man's 
estate. 

If  two  Eternities,  at  strife  for  us, 
Around  each  human  soul  wage  silent 

war, 
Dare   we  disdain    ourselves,    though 

fall'n  we  are, 

With  Hell  and  Heaven  looking  on  ua 
thus? 


396 


NIGHT. 


Whom  God  hath  loved,    whom  Devils 

dare  not  scorn, 

Despise  not  thou,  —  the  meanest  hu- 
man creature. 
C'limb,  if  thou  canst,  the  heights  of 

thine  own  nature, 

And  look  toward  Paradise  where  each 
was  born. 

So  I  spread  sackcloth  on  my  former  pride : 
And  sat  down,  clothed  and  covered  up 

with  shame  : 
And  cried  to  God  to  take  away  my 

blame 
Among  my  brethren :  and  to  these  I  cried 

To  come  between    my  crime  and  my 

despair, 
That  they  might  help  my  heart  up, 

when  God  sent 

Upon  my  soul  its  proper  punishment, 
Lest  that  should  be  too  great  for  me  to 
bear. 

And  so  I  made  my  choice  :  and  learned 

to  live 
Again,   and    worship,   as    my    spirit 

yearned  : 
So  much  had  been  admired  —  so  much 

been  learned  — 

So  much  been  given  me  —  0,  how  much 
to  give ! 

Here  is  the  choice,  and  now  the  time,  0 

chooser  ! 
Endless  the  consequence  though  brief 

the  choice. 
Echoes  are  waked  down  ages  by  thy 

voice  f 

Speak  :  and  be  thou  the  gainer  or  the 
loser. 

And  I  bethought  me  long  .  .  .  "Though 

garners  split, 
If  none  but  thou  be  fed  art  thou  more 

full?" 

For  surely  Knowledge  and  the  Beauti- 
ful 
Are  human  ;  must  have  love,  or  die  for  it ! 

To  Give  is  better  than  to  Know  or  See  : 
And  both  are  means  :  and  neither  is 

the  end  : 
Knowing  and  seeing,  if  none  call  thee 

friend, 

Beauty  and  knowledge  have  done  naught 
fgr  thee, 


Though  I  at  Aphrodite  all  day  long 
Gaze  until  sunset  with  a  thirsty  eye, 
I  shall  not  drain  her  boundless  beauty 

dry 

By  that  wild  gaze  :  nor  do  her  fair  face 
wrong. 

For  who  gives,  giving,  doth  win  back  his 

gift: 
And  knowledge  by  division  grows  to 

more : 
Who  hides  the  Master's  talent  shall 

die  poor, 

And  starve  at  last  of  his  own  thankless 
thrift. 

I  did  this  for  another  :  and,  behold  ! 

My  work  hath  blood  in  it :  but  thine 
hath  none  : 

Done  for  thyself,  it  dies  in  being  done  : 
To  what  thou  buyest  thou  thyself  art  sold. 

Give  thyself  utterly  away.     Be  lost. 
Choose  some  one,  something  :  not  thy- 
self, thine  own : 
Thou   canst   not   perish  :   but,  thrice 

greater  grown,  — 

Thy  gain  the  greatest  where  thy  loss  was 
most,  — 

Thou  in  another  shalt  thyself  new-find. 
The  single  globule,  lost  in  the  wide  sea, 
Becomes  an  ocean.  Each  identity 

Is  greatest  in  the  greatness  of  its  kind. 

Who  serves  for  gain,  a  slave,  by  thank- 

less  pelf 
Is  paid:  who  gives  himself  is  priceless, 

free. 

I  give  myself,  a  man,  to  God  :  lo,  He 
Renders  me  back  a  saint  unto  myself ! 


NIGHT. 

COME  to  me,  not  as  once  thoa  earnest, 

Night  ! 

With  light  and  splendor  up  the  gor- 
geous West ; 
Easing  the  heart's  rich  sense  of  thee 

with  sighs 
Sobbed  out  of  all  emotion  on  Love's 

breast ; 
While  the  dark  world  waned  wavering 

into  rest, 

Half  seen  athwart  the  dim  deljcjous  light 
Of  languid  eyes ; 


SONG.  —  ELISABETTA  SIRANI. 


397 


But  softly,   soberly  ;   and  dark  —  more 

dark  ! 
Till  my  life's  shadow  lose  itself  in 

thine. 

Athwart  the  light  of  slowly-gather- 
ing tears, 

That  come  between  me  and  the  star- 
light, shine 

From  distant  melancholy  deeps  divine, 
While  day  slips  downward  through  a 

rosy  arc 
To  other  spheres. 


SONG. 

FLOW,  freshly  flow, 

Dark  stream,  below  ! 

While  stars  grow  light  above  : 

By  willowy  banks,  through  lonely  downs, 

Past  terraced  walls  in  silent  towns, 

And  bear  me  to  my  love  ! 

Still,  as  we  go, 

Blow,  gently  blow, 

Warm  wind,  and  blithely  move 

These  dreamy  sails,  that  slowly  glide,  — 

A  shadow  on  the  shining  tide 

That  bears  me  to  my  love. 

Fade,  sweetly  fade 

In  dewy  shade 

On  lonely  grange  and  grove, 

0  lingering  day  !  and  bring  the  night 

Through  all  her  milk-white  mazes  bright 

That  tremble  o'er  my  love. 

The  sunset  wanes 

From  twinkling  panes. 

Dim,  misty  myriads  move 

Down  glimmering  streets.     One  light  I 

see  — 

One  happy  light,  that  shines  for  me, 
And  lights  me  to  my  love  ! 


FORBEARANCE. 

CALL  me  not,  Love,  unthankful  or  un- 
kind, 
That  I  have  left  my  heart  with  thee, 

and  fled. 
I  were  not  worth  that  wealth  which  I 

resigned, 
Had  I  not  chosen  poverty  instead. 


Grant  me  but  solitude  !  I  dare  not  swerve 
From  my  soul's  law,  —  a  slave,  though 
serving  thee. 

I  but  forbear  more  grandly  to  deserve  : 
The  free  gift  only  cometh  of  the  free. 


HELIOS  HYPERIONIDES. 

HELIOS  all  day  long  his  allotted  labor 

pursues  ; 
No  rest  to  his  passionate  heart  and  his 

panting  horses  given, 
From  the  moment  when  roseate-fingered 

Eos  kindles  the  dews 
And  spurns  the  salt  sea-floors,  ascend- 
ing silvery  the  heaven, 
Until  from  the  hand  of  Eos  Hesperos, 

trembling,  receives 
His  fragrant  lamp,  and  faint  in  the 

twilight  hangs  it  up. 
Then  the  over-wearied  son  of  Hyperion 

lightly  leaves 
His  dusty  chariot,  and  softly  slips  into 

his  golden  cup  : 

And  to  holy  Ethiopia,  under  the  ocean- 
stream, 
Back  from  the  sunken  retreats  of  the 

sweet  Hesperides, 
Leaving  his  unloved  labor,  leaving  his 

unyoked  team, 
He  sails  to  his  much-loved  wife  ;  and 

stretches  his  limbs  at  ease 
In  a  laurelled  lawn  divine,  on  a  bed  of 

beaten  gold, 
Where  he  pleasantly  sleeps,  forgetting 

his  travel  by  lands  and  seas, 
Till  again  the  clear-eyed  Eos  comes  with 

a  finger  cold, 
And  again,  from  his  white  wife  severed, 

Hyperionides 
Leaps  into  his  flaming  chariot,  angrily 

gathers  the  reins, 
Headlong  flings  his  course  through 

Uranos,  much  in  wrath, 
And  over  the  seas  and  mountains,  over 

the  rivers  and  plains, 
Chafed  at  heart,  tumultuous,  pushes 
his  burning  path. 


ELISABETTA  SIRANI. 
1665. 

JTJST  to  begin,  —  and  end  !  so  much,  — 

no  more  ! 
To  touch  upon  the  very  point  at  last 


398 


EL1SABKTTA   SIRANI. 


Where  life  should   cling :   to   feel   the 

solid  shore 
Safe  ;  where,  the  seething  sea's  strong 

toil  o'erpast, 
Peace  seemed  appointed  ;  then,  with  all 

the  store 
Half-undivulged  of  the  gleaned  ocean 

cast, 

Like  a  discouraged  wave's  on  the  bleak 

strand, 
Where   what  appeared  some    temple 

(whose  glad  Priest 
To  gather  ocean's  sparkling  gift  should 

stand, 
Bidding  the  wearied  wave,  from  toil 

releast, 
Sleep  in  the  marble  harbors  bathed  with 

bland 
And  quiet  sunshine,  flowing  from  full 

east 
Among  the  laurels)  proves  the  dull  blind 

rock's 

Fantastic  front, — to  die,  a  disallowed, 
Dasht  purpose  :  which  the  scornful  shore- 
cliff  mocks, 
Even  as  it  sinks  ;  and  all  its  wealth 

bestowed 
In  vain,  —  mere  food  to  feed,  perchance, 

stray  flocks 
Of  the  coarse  sea-gull !   weaving  its 

own  shroud 

Of  idle  foam,  swift  ceasing  to  be  seen  ! 
—  Sad,    sad,  my  father  !   .  .  .    yet  it 

comes  to  this. 
For  I  am  dying.     All  that  might  have 

been  — 
That  must  have  been  !  .  .  .  the  days, 

so  hard  to  miss, 
So  sure  to  come  !  .  .  .  eyes,   lips,   that 

seemed  to  lean 
In  on  me  at  my  work,   and  almost 

kiss 
The  curls  bowed  o'er  it,  ...  lost !    O, 

never  doubt 
I  should  have  lived  to  know  them  all 

again, 
And  from  the  crowd  of  praisers  single 

out 
For  special  love  those  forms  beheld  so 

plain 
Beforehand.     When  my  pictures,  borne 

about 
Bologna,  to  the  church  doors,  led  their 

train 

Of  kindling  faces,  turned,  as  by  they  go, 

Up  to  these  windows,  —  standing  at 

your  side 


Unseen,  to  see  them,  I  (be  sure  !)  should 

know 
And  welcome  back  those  eyes  and  lijis, 

descried 

Long  since  in  fancy  :  for  I  loved  them  -n, 
And  so  believed  them  !    Think  !  .  .  . 

Bologna's  pride 
My  paintings  !  .  .  .  Guido  Reni's  mantle 

mine  .  .  . 

And  I,  the  maiden  artist,  prized  aim  mi" 
The  masters,  ...  ah,  that  dream  * .-. 

divine 

For  earth  to  realize  !     I  die  so  yoimj,', 
All  this  escapes  me  !     God,  the  gilt  l)f 

Thine, 
Not  man's  then  .  .  .  better  so  !     That 

throbbing  throng 
Of  human  faces  fades  out  fast.     Even 

yours, 

Beloved  ones,  the  inexorable  Fate 
(For  all  our  vowed  affections  !)   scarce 

endures 

About  me.     Must  I  go,  then,  desolate 
Out  from  among  you  ?    Nay,  my  work 

insures 
Fit  guerdon  somewhere,  —  though  the 

gift  must  wait ! 
Had  I  lived  longer,  life  would  sure  have 

set 
Earth's  gift  of  fame  in  safety.     But  I 

die. 

Death  must  make  safe  the  heavenly  guer- 
don yet. 

I  trusted  time  for  immortality,  — 
There  was  my  error  !     Father,  never  let 
Doubt  of  reward  confuse  my  memory  ! 
Besides,  —  I  have  done  much  :  and  what 

is  done 
Is  well  done.     All  my  heart  conceived, 

my  hand 
Made  fast  .  .  .  mild  martyr,  saint,  and 

weeping  nun, 
And  truncheoned  prince,  and  warrior 

with  bold  brand, 

Yetkeepmylife  upon  them ; — as  the  sun, 
Though  fallen  below  the  limits  of  the 

land, 

Still  sees  on  every  form  of  purple  cloud 
His  painted  presence. 

Flaring  August 's  here, 
September 's  coming !     Summer's  broid- 

ered  shroud 

Is  borne  away  in  triumph  by  the  year  : 
Red  Autumn  drops,  from  all  his  branches 

bowed, 
His  careless  wealth  upon  the  costly  bier. 


ELISABETTA   SIRANI. 


399 


We  must  be  cheerful.    Set  the  casement 

wide. 
One  last  look  o'er  the  places  I  have 

loved, 
One  last  long  look  !  .  .  .  Bologna,  0  my 

pride 
Among  thy  palaced  streets  !    The  days 

have  moved 

Pleasantly  o'er  us.     What  has  been  de- 
nied 
To   our  endeavor?     Life  goes  unre- 

proved. 

To  make  the  best  of  all  things,  is  the  best 
Of  all  means  to  be  happy.     This  I 

know, 
But  cannot  phrase  it  finely.    The  night's 

rest 
The  day's  toil  sweetens.     Flowers  are 

wanned  by  snow. 
All 's  well  God  wills.     Work  out  this 

grief.     Joy's  zest 

Itself  is  salted  with  a  touch  of  woe. 
There  's  nothing  comes  to  us  may  not  be 

borne, 
Except  a  too  great  happiness.     But 

this 
Comes  rarely.     Though  I  know  that  you 

will  mourn 
The  little  maiden  helpmate  you  must 

miss, 

Thanks  be  to  God,  I  leave  you  not  for- 
lorn. 
There  should  be  comfort  in  this  dying 

kiss. 
Let  Barbara  keep  my  colors  for  herself. 

I  'm  sorry  that  Lucia  went  away 
In  some  unkindness.     'T  was  a  cheerful 

elf! 
Send  her  my  scarlet  ribands,  mother  ; 

say 
I  thought  of  her.     My  palette  's  on  the 

shelf, 

Surprised,  no  doubt,  at  such  long  holi- 
day. 

In  the  south  window,  on  the  easel,  stands 

My  picture  for  the  Empress  Eleanore, 

Still  wanting  some  few  touches,   these 

weak  hands 
Must  leave   to   others.     Yet   there 's 

time  before 
The  year  ends.     And  the  Empress'  own 

commands 
You  '11   find    in   writing.      Barbara's 

brush  is  more 

Like  mine  than  Anna's ;  let  her  finish  it. 
0,  ...  and  there  's  'Maso,    our  poor 
fisherman  ! 


You  '11   find   my  work   done   for  him  : 

something  fit 
To  hang  among  his  nets :  you  liked 

the  plan 
My  fancy  took  to  please  our  friend's  dull 

wit, 

^Scarce  brighter  than  his  old  tin  fish- 
ing-can. .  .  . 

St.  Margaret,  stately  as  a  ship  full  sail, 
Leading  a  dragon  by  an  azure  band  ; 
The  ribbon  flutters  gayly  in  the  gale  ; 
The  monster  follows  the  Saint's  guid- 
ing hand, 
Wrinkled  to  one  grim  smile  from  head 

to  tail  : 
For  in  his  horny  hide  his  heart  grows 

bland. 
—  Where  are  you,  dear  ones  ?  .  .  . 

'T  is  the  dull,  faint  chill, 
Which  soon  will  shrivel  into  burning 

pain  ! 
Dear  brother,  sisters,  father,  mother,  — 

still 
Stand   near  me  !     While   your  faces 

fixt  remain 
Within  my  sense,  vague  fears  of  unknown 

ill 
Are  softly  crowded  out,  .  .  .  and  yet, 

't  is  vain  ! 

Greet  Giulio  Banzi ;  greet  Antonio  ;  greet 

Bartolomeo,  kindly.    When  I  'm  gone, 

And  in  the  school-room,  as  of  old,  you 

meet, 
—  Ah,  yes !  you  '11  miss  a  certain  merry 

tone, 

A  cheerful  face,  a  smile  that  should  com- 
plete 
The   vague  place   in   the    household 

picture  grown 

To  an  aspect  so  familiar,  it  seems  strange 
That  aught  should  alter  there.     Mere 

life,  at  least, 
Could  not  have  brought  the  shadow  of  a 

change 
Across  it.     Safely  the  warm  years  in- 

creast 
Among  us.      I   have   never  sought  to 

range 
From  our  small  table  at  earth's  general 

feast, 

To  higher  places  :  never  loved  but  you, 
Dear  family   of   friends,    except   my 

art: 

Nor  any  form  save  those  my  pencil  drew 
E'er  quivered  in   the   quiet    of   my 
heart. 


400 


LAST   WOKDS. 


I  die  a  maiden  to  Madonna  true, 
And    would    have   so   continued.  .  .  . 

There,  the  smart, 
The  pang,  the  faintne.ss  !  .  .  . 

Ever,  as  I  lie 
Here,  with  the  Autumn  sunset  on  my 

face, 

And  heavy  in  my  curls  (whilst  it,  and  I, 

Together,  slipping  softly  from  the  place 

We  played  in,  pensively  prepare  to  die), 

A  low  warm  humming  simmers  in  my 

ears, 

—  Old  Summer  afternoons  !   faint  frag- 
ments rise 
Out  of  my  broken  life  ...  at  times 

appears 

Madonna-like  a  moon  in  mellow  skies  : 
The  three  Fates  with  the  spindle  and 

the  shears  : 

The  Grand  Duke  Cosmo  with  the  Desti- 
nies : 
St.  Margaret  with  her  dragon  :  fitful 

cheers 

Along  the  Via  Urbana  come  and  go  : 
Bologna  with  her  towers !  .  .  .  Then 
all  grows  dim, 


And  shapes  itself  anew,  softly  and  slow, 
To  cloistered  glooms  through  which 

tlir  silver  hymn 

Eludes  the .sensitive,  i silence;  whilst  In-low 
The  southwest  window,  just  on<  single, 

slim, 
And  sleepy  sunbeam,  powders  with  wu\v<l 

gold 

A  lane  of  gleamy  mist  along  the  gloom. 
Whereby  to  find  its  way,  through  mani- 
fold 

Magnificence,  to  Guido  Reni's  tomb, 
Which,  set  in  steadfast  splendor,   1  be- 
hold. 
And  all  the  while,  I  scent  the  incense 

fume, 
Till  dizzy  grows  the  brain,  and  dark  the 

eye 
Beneath  the  eyelid.     When  the  end 

is  come, 
There,  by  his  tomb  (our  master's)  let  me 

lie, 
Somewhere,  not  too  far  off;   beneath 

the  dome 

Of  our  own  Lady  of  the  Rosary  : 
Safe,  where  old  friends  will  pass ;  and 
still  near  home  ! 


LAST  WORDS. 


WILL,  are  you  sitting  and  watching  there  yet  ?    And  I  know,  by  a  certain  skill 

That  grows  out  of  utter  wakefulness,  the  night  must  be  far  spent,  Will  : 

For,  lying  awake  so  many  a  night,  I  have  learned  at  last  to  catch 

From  the  crowing  cock,  and  the  clanging  clock,  and  the  sound  of  the  beating  watch, 

A  misty  sense  of  the  measureless  march  of  Time,  as  he  passes  here, 

Leaving  my  life  behind  him  ;  and  I  know  that  the  dawn  is  near. 

But  you  have  been  watching  three  nights,  Will,  and  you  looked  so  wan  to-night, 

I  thought,  as  I  saw  you  sitting  there,  in  the  sad  monotonous  light 

Of  the  moody  night-lamp  near  you,  that  1  could  not  choose  but  close 

My  lids  as  fast,  and  lie  as  still,  as  though  1  lay  in  a  doze  : 

For,  1  thought,  "  He  will  deem  I  am  dreaming,  and  then  he  may  steal  away, 

And  sleep  a  little  :  and  this  will  be  well."     And  truly,  I  dreamed,  as  I  lay 

Wide  awake,  but  all  as  quiet,  as  though,  the  last  office  done, 

They  had  streaked  me  out  for  the  grave,  Will,  to  which  they  will  bear  me  anon. 

Dreamed  ;  for  old  things  and  places  came  dancing  about  my  brain, 

Like  ghosts  that  dance  in  an  empty  house  :  and  my  thoughts  went  slipping  again 

By  green  back-ways  forgotten  to  a  stiller  circle  of  time, 

Where  violets,  faded  forever,  seemed  blowing  as  once  in  their  prime  : 

And  I  fancied  that  you  and  I,  Will,  were  boys  again  as  of  old, 

At  dawn  on  the  hill-top  together,  at  eve  in  the  field  by  the  fold  ; 

Till  the,  thought  of  this  was  growing  too  wildly  sweet  to  be  borne, 

And  I  oped  my  eyes,  and  turned  me  round,  and  there,  in  the  light  forlorn, 

I  find  you  sitting  beside  me.     But  the  dawn  is  at  hand,  I  know. 

Sleep  a  little,     I  shall  not  die  to-night.     You  may  leave  me.     Go, 


LAST  WORDS.  401 

Eh  !  is  it  tim«  for  the  drink  ?  must  you  mix  it  ?  it  does  me  no  good. 

But  thanks,  old  friend,  true  friend  !  I  would  live  for  your  sake,  if  I  could. 

Ay,  there  are  some  good  things  in  life,  that  fall  not  away  with  the  rest. 

And,  of  all  best  things  upon  earth,  I  hold  that  a  faithful  friend  is  the  best. 

For  woman,  Will,  is"a  thgrny  flower  :  it  breaks,  and  we  bleed  and  smart : 

The  blossom  falls  at  the  fairest,  and  the  thorn  runs  into  the  heart. 

And  woman's  love  is  a. bitter  fruit ;  and,  however  he  bite  it,  or  sip, 

There 's  many  a  man  has  lived  to  curse  the  taste  of  that  fruit  on  his  lip. 

But  never  was  any  man  yet,  as  I  ween,  be  he  whosoever  he  may, 

That  has  known  what  a  true  friend  is,  Will,  and  wished  that  knowledge  away. 

You  were  proud  of  my  promise,  faithful  despite  of  my  fall, 

Sad  when  the  world  seemed  over  sweet,  sweet  when  the  world  turned  gall  : 

When  1  cloaked  myself  in  the  pride  of  praise  from  what  God  grieved  to  see, 

You  saw  through  the  glittering  lie  of  it  all,  and  silently  mourned  for  me  : 

When  the  world  took  back  what  the  world  had  given,  and  scorn  with  praise 

changed  place, 

I,  from  my  sackcloth  and  ashes,  looked  up,  and  saw  hope  glow  on  your  face  : 
Therefore,  fair  weather  be  yours,  Will,  whether  it  shines  or  pours, 
And,  if  I  can  slip  from  out  of  my  grave,  my  spirit  will  visit  yours. 

0  woman  eyes  that  have  smiled  and  smiled,  0  woman  lips  that  have  kist 
The  life-blood  out  of  my  heart,  why  thus  forever  do  you  persist, 
Pressing  out  of  the  dark  all  round,  to  bewilder  my  dying  hours 
With  your  ghostly  sorceries  brewed  from  the  breath  of  your  poison-flowers  ? 
Still,  though  the  idol  be  broken,  I  see  at  their  ancient  revels, 
The  riven  altar  around,  come  dancing  the  self-same  devils. 
Lcnte  ciirrite,  lente  currite,  noctis  equi  ! 
Linger  a  little,  0  Time,  and  let  me  be  saved  ere  I  die. 
How  many  a  night  'neath  her  window  have  I  walked  in  the  wind  and  rain, 
Only  to  look  at  her  shadow  fleet  over  the  lighted  pane. 
Alas  !  't  was  the  shadow  that  rested,  't  was  herself  that  fleeted,  you  see, 
And  now  I  am  dying,  I  know  it :  —  dying,  and  where  is  she  ! 
Dancing  divinely,  perchance,  or,  over  her  soft  harp  strings, 
Using  the  past  to  give  pathos  to  the  little  new  song  that  she  sings. 
Bitter  ?  I'dare  not  be  bitter  in  the  few  last  hours  left  to  live. 
Needing  so  much  forgiveness,  God  grant  me  at  least  to  forgive. 
There  can  be  no  space  for  the  ghost  of  her  face  down  in  the  narrow  room, 
And  the  mole  is  blind,  and  the  worm  is  mute,  and  there  must  be  rest  in  the  tomb. 
And  just  one  failure  more  or  less  to  a  life  that  seems  to  be 
(Whilst  I  lie  looking  upon  it,  as  a  bird  on  the  broken  tree 
She  hovers  about,  ere  making  wing  for  a  land  of  lovelier  growth, 
Brighter  blossom,  and  purer  air,  somewhere  far  off  in  the  south,) 
Failure,  crowning  failure,  failure  from  end  to  end, 
Just  one  more  or  less,  what  matter,  to  the  many  no  grief  can  mend  ? 
Not  to  know  vice  is  virtue,  not  fate,  however  men  rave  : 
And,  next  to  this  I  hold  that  man  to  be  but  a  coward  and  slave 
Who  bears  the  plague-spot  about  him,  and,  knowing  it,  shrinks  or  fears 
To  brand  it  out,  though  the  burning  knife  should  hiss  in  his  heart's  hot  tears. 
But  I  have  caught  the  contagion  of  a  world  that  I  never  loved, 
Pleased  myself  with  approval  of  those  that  I  never  approved, 
Paltered  with  pleasures  that  pleased  not,  and  fame  where  no  fame  could  be, 
And  how  shall  I  look,  do  you  think,  Will,  when  the  angels  are  looking  on  me  ? 
Yet  oh  !  the  confident  spirit  once  mine,  to  dare  and  to  do  ! 
Take  the  world  into  my  hand,  and  shape  it,  and  make  it  anew  : 
Gather  all  men  in  my  purpose,  men  in  their  darkness  and  dearth, 
..L>n  in  their  meanness  and  misery,  made  of  the  dust  of  the  earth, 
Mould  them  afresh,  and  make  out  of  them  Man,  with  his  spirit  sublime, 
26 


402  LAST  WORDS. 

Man,  the  great  heir  of  Eternity,  dragging  the  conquests  of  Time  ! 

Therefore  I  mingled  among  them,  deeming  the  poet  should  hold 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own,  as  the  world  in  the  ark  was  of  old  ; 

All  natures  saved  in  his  own  to  be  types  of  a  nobler  race, 

When  the  old  world  passeth  away  and  the  new  world  taketh  his  place. 

Triple  fool  in  my  folly  !  purblind. and  impotent  worm, 

Thinking  to  move  the  world,  who  could  not  myself  stand  firm  ! 

Ch'-it  ofii  worn-out  trick,  as  one  that  on  shipboard  roves 

Wherever  the  wind  may  blow,  still  deeming  the  continent  moves  ! 

Blowing  the  frothy  bubble  of  life's  brittle  purpose  away  ; 

Child,  ever  chasing  the  morrow,  who  now  cannot  ransom  a  day  : 

Still  I  called  Fame  to  lead  onward,  forgetting  she  follows  behind 

Those  who  know  whither  they  walk  through  the  praise  or  dispraise  of  mankind. 

All  my  life  (looking  back  on  it)  shows  like  the  broken  stair 

That  winds  round  a  ruined  tower,  and  never  will  lead  anywhere. 

Friend,  lay  your  hand  in  my  own,  and  swear  to  me,  when  you  have  seen 

My  body  borne  out  from-the  door,  ere  the  grass  on  my  grave  shall  be  green, 

You  will  burn  every  book  I  have  written.     And  so  perish,  one  and  allj 

Each  trace  of  the  struggle  that  failed  with  the  life  that  I  cannot  recall. 

Dust  and  ashes,  earth's  dross,  which  the  mattock  may  give  to  the  mole  ! 

Something,  though  stained  and  defaced,  survives,  as  I  trust,  with  the  eouL 

Something  ? .  .  .  Ay,  something  comes  back  to  me  ...  Think  !  that  I  might  have 

been  .  .  .  what  ? 

Almost,  I  fancy  at  times,  what  I  meant  to  have  been,  and  am  not. 
Where  was  the  fault  ?     Was  it  strength  fell  short  ?    And  yet  (I  can  speak  of  it  now  ! ) 
How  my  spirit  sung  like  the  resonant  nerve  of  a  warrior's  battle-bow 
When  the  shaft  has  leapt  from  the  string,  what  time,  her  first  bright  banner  un- 
furled, 

Song  aimed  her  arrowy  purpose  in  me  sharp  at  the  heart  of  the  world. 
Was  it  the  hand  that  faltered,  unskilled  ?  or  was  it  the  eye  that  deceived  ? 
However  I  reason  it  out,  there  remains  a  failure  time  has  not  retrieved. 
I  said  I  would  live  in  all  lives  that  beat,  and  love  in  all  loves  that  be  : 
I  would  crown  me  lord  of  all  passions  ;  and  the  passions  were  lords  of  me. 
I  would  compass  every  circle,  I  would  enter  at  every  door, 
In  the  starry  spiral  of  science,  and  the  labyrinth  of  lore, 
Only  to  follow  the  flying  foot  of  love  to  his  last  retreat. 
Fool  !  that  with  man's  all-imperfect  would  circumscribe  God's  all-complete  ! 
Arrogant  error  !  whereby  I  starved  like  the  fool  in  the  fable  of  old, 
Whom  the  gods  destroyed  by  the  gift  he  craved,  turning  all  things  to  gold. 
Be  wise  :  know  what  to  leave  unknown.     The  flow:ers  bloom  on  the  brink, 
But  black  death  lurks  at  the  bottom.     Help  men  to  enjoy,  not  to  think, 
0  j>oet  to  whom  I  give  place  !  cull  the  latest  effect,  leave  the  cause. 
Few  that  dive  for  the  pearl  of  the  deep  but  are  crushed  in  the  kraken's  jaws. 
While  the  harp  of  Arion  is  heard  at  eve  over  the  glimmering  ocean  : 
He  floats  in  the  foam,  on  the  dolphin's  back,  gliding  with  gentle  motion, 
Over  the  rolling  water,  under  the  light  of  the  beaming  star, 
And  the  nymphs,  half  asleep  on  the  surface,  sail  moving  his  musical  car. 
A  little  knowledge  will  turn  youth  gray.     And  I  stood,  chill  in  the  sun, 
Naming  you  each  of  the  roses  ;  blest  by  the  beauty  of  none. 
My  song  had  an  after-savor  of  the  salt  of  many  tears, 
Or  it  burm-d  with  a  bitter  foretaste  of  the  end  as  it  now  appears  : 
And  the  world  that  had  paused  to  listen  awhile,  because  the  first  notes  were  gay, 
Passed  on  its  way  with  a  sneer  and  a  smile  :  "  Has  he  nothing  fresher  to  say  t 
This  poet's  mind  was  a  weedy  flower  that  presently  comes  to  naught  ! " 
For  the  world  was  not  so  sad  hut  what  my  song  was  sadder,  it  thought. 
Comfort  me  not.     For  if  aught  be  worse  than  failure  from  over-stress 


LAST  WORDS.  403 

Of  a  life's  prime  purpose,  it  is  to  sit  down  content  with  a  little  success. 
Talk  not  of  genius  baffled.     Genius  is  master  of  man. 
Genius  does  what  it  must,  and  talent  does  what  it  can. 
Blot  out  my  name,  that  the  spirits  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Burns 
Look  not  down  on  the  praises  of  fools  with  a  pity  my  soul  yet  spurns. 
And  yet,  had  I  only  the  trick  of  an  aptitude  shrewd  of  its  kind, 
I  should  have  lived  longer,  I  think,  m,ore  merry  of  heart  and  of  mind. 
Surely  I  knew  (who  better  ?)  the  innermost  secret  of  each 
Bird,  and  beast,  and  flower.     Failed  I  to  give  to  them  speech  ? 
All  the  pale  spirits  of  storm,  that  sail  down  streams  of  the  wind, 
Cleaving  the  thunder-cloud,  with  wild  hair  blowing  behind  ; 
All  the  soft  seraphs  that  float  in  the  light  of  the  crimson  eve, 
When  Hesper  begins  to  glitter,  and  the  heavy  woodland  to  heave  : 
All  the  white  nymphs  of  the  water  that  dwell  'mid  the  lilies  alone  : 
And  the  buskined  maids  for  the  love  of  whom  the  hoary  oak-trees  groan  ; 
They  came  to  my  call  in  the  forest ;  they  crept  to  my  feet  from  the  river : 
They  softly  looked  out  of  the  sky  when  I  sung,  and  their  wings  beat  with  breath- 
less endeavor 

The  blocks  of  the  broken  thunder  piling  their  stormy  lattices, 
Over  the  moaning  mountain  walls,  and  over  the  sobbing  seas. 
So  many  more  reproachful  faces  around  my  bed  ! 

Voices  moaning  about  me  :  "  Ah  !  couldst  thou  not  heed  what  we  said  ? " 
Peace  to  the  past !  it  skills  not  now  :  these  thoughts  that  vex  it  in  vain 
Are  but  the  dust  of  a  broken  purpose  blowing  about  the  brain 
Which  presently  will  be  tenantless,  when  the  wanton  worms  carouse, 
And  the  mole  builds  over  my  bones  his  little  windowless  house. 
It  is  growing  darker  and  stranger,  Will,  and  colder,  —  dark  and  cold, 
Dark  and  cold  !     Is  the  lamp  gone  out  ?     Give  me  thy  hand  to  hold. 
No  :  't  is  life's  brief  candle  burning  down.     Tears  ?  tears,  Will !     Why, 
This  which  we  call  dying  is  only  ceasing  to  die. 
It  is  but  the  giving  over  a  game  all  lose.     Fear  life,  not  death. 
The  hard  thing  was  to  live,  Will.     To  whatever  bourn  this  breath 
Is  going,  the  way  is  easy  now.     With  flowers  and  music,  life, 
Like  a  pagan  sacrifice,  leads  us  along  to  this  dark  High  Priest  with  the  knife. 
I  have  been  too  peevish  at  mere  mischance.     For  whether  we  build  it,  friend,. 
Of  brick  or  jasper,  life's  large  base  dwindles  into  this  point  at  the  end, 
A  kind  of  nothing  !     Who  knows  whether  't  is  fittest  to  weep  or  laugh 
At  those  thin  curtains  the  spider  spins  o'er  each  dusty  epitaph  ? 
I  talk  wildly.     But  this  I  know,  that  not  even  the  best  and  first, 
When  all  is  done,  can  claim  by  desert  what  even  to  the  last  and  worst 
Of  us  weak  workmen,  God  from  the  depth  of  his  infinite  mercy  giveth. 
These  bones  shall  rest  in  peace,  for  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth. 
Doubtful  images  come  and  go  ;  and  I  seem  to  be  passing  them  by. 
Bubbles  these  be  of  the  mind,  which  show  that  the  stream  is  hurrying  nigh' 
To  the  home  of  waters.     Already  I  feel,  in  a  sort  of  still  sweet  awe, 
The  great  main  current  of  all  that  I  am  beginning  to  draw  and  draw 
Into  perfect  peace.     I  attain  at  last  !     Life 's  a  long,  long  reaching  out 
Of  the  soul  to  something  beyond  her.     Now  comes  the  end  of  all  doubt. 
The  vanishing  point  in  the  picture  !     I  have  uttered  weak  words  to-night, 
And  foolish.     A  thousand  failures,  what  are  these  in  the  sight 
Of  the  One  All-Perfect  who,  whether  man  fails  in  his  work,  or  succeeds, 
Builds  surely,  solemnly  up  from  our  broken  days  and  deeds 
The  infinite  purpose  of  time.     We  are  but  day-laborers  all, 
Early  or  late,  or  first  or  last  at  the  gate  in  the  vineyard  wall. 
Lord  !  if,  in  love,  though  fainting  oft,  I  have  tended  thy  gracious  Vine, 
O,  quench  the  thirst  on  these  dying  lips,  Thou  who  pourest  the  win*  ! 
Hush  !  I  am  in  the  way  to  study  a  long,  long  silence  now. 


404  LAST   WORDS. 

I  know  at  last  what  I  cannot  tell  :  I  see  what  I  may  not  show. 

Pray  awhile  for  my  soul.     Then  sleep.     There  is  nothing  in  this  to  fear. 

I  shall  sleep  into  death.     Night  sleeps.     The  hoarse  wolf  howls  not  near, 

No  dull  owl  beats  the  casement,  and  no  rough-bearded  star 

Stares  on  my  mild  departure  from  yon  dark  window  bar. 

Nature  takes  no  notice  of  those  that  are  coming  or  going. 

To-morrow  make  ready  my  grave,  Will.    To-morrow  new  flowers  will  be  blowing. 


INDEX. 


[The  titles  in  capital  letters  are  those  of  the  principal  divisions  of  the  work  ;  those  in  lower- 
case are  single  poems,  or  the  subdivisions  of  long  poems.] 


Adieu,  Mignonne,  ma  Belle     . 
Adon     
A  1'Entresol     
Aloe  The      

208 
.    391 
190 
.    212 

Fancy,  A      ....... 
Failure      
Farewell,  A  

.    174 
250 
.    376 

Fatality    

169 
.    236 
397 
.    214 
238 

.    235 

Appearances     
APPLE  OF  LIFE,  THE    . 
Aristocracy      
Artist,  The  
Associations     

384 
.     150 
375 
.    358 
374 
.    198 

Fatima  
Forbearance     
Fount  of  Truth,  The    .... 
Fugitive,  The  

Ghost  Story,  A    

At  her  Casement      .... 
At  Home  after  the  Ball 
At  Home  (luring  the  Ball 
AuCafe***       .... 
Autumn    
Aux  Italiens         .... 

Babylonia         
Bird  at  Sunset,  A        ... 

375 
.    200 
199 
.    201 
225 
.    194 

219 
.    391 
236 

Going  back  again     
Good-Night  in  the  Porch    . 

Heart  and  Nature,  The    .... 
Helios  Hyperionides    .... 
How  the  bong  was  made 

In  Travel      

236 
.    340 

222 
.    397 
384 

.    892 
171 

.    226 

Canticle  of  Love,  The  . 
"  Carpe  Diem  "         .... 
Castle  of  King  Macbeth,  The 
Chain  to  wear,  A      .... 
Change          
Changes    
Chess-Board,  The 
Cloud,  The        
CLYTEMNESTRA      . 
Compensation  
Condemned  Ones  .... 

.    233 
214 
.    237 
184 
.    183 
392 
.    206 
173 
.    300 
210 
.    180 

.Indicium  Paridis     

393 

.    389 

237 
.    245 

King  Solomon 

Last  Message  The 

.    187 

Last  Remonstrance,  The 
Last  Time  that  I  met  Lady  Ruth,  The 
Last  Words      

206 
.    217 
400 
.    387 

Contraband      
Cordelia        
Count  Rinaldo  Rinaldi 

Death-in-Life        .... 
Death  of  King  Hacon,  The      . 
Desire  
Dream,  A          

Earl's  Return,  The 
Elayne  Le  Blanc       .... 
Elisabetta  Sirani 
Epilogue. 
Part     I     . 
Part    II  
Part  III  
Eros      
Euthanasia       
Evening        
Evening  in  Tuscany.  An  . 

390 
.    246 
185 

.    237 
213 

.    168 
245 

.    344 
379 
.    397 

261 
.    263 
266 
.    171 
253 
.     390 
376 

Leafless  Hours         
Letter  to  Cordelia,  A  . 

225 
.    250 

Love-Letter,  A         
LUCILE       

Madame  la  Marquise       .... 
Magic  Land,  The         .... 
Macromicros    
Matrimonial  Counsels 
"  Medio  de  Fonte  Leporum  "  . 
Meeting  again       
Mermaiden,  The       

177 
9 

193 
.    168 
229 
.    218 
213 
.    375 
375 
.    235 

216 
.    369 
251 
.    172 
230 

.    224 

MINOR  POEMS  

Morning  and  Meeting  .... 
Mystery   

N»aise  . 

406 


INDEX. 


Neglected  Heart,  The      .... 
News 

384 
185 

Storm,  The  
SiiiiiMHT-Time  that  was.  The  . 

116 
B79 

Night        

M6 

Sunset  Fancy,  A  

:i74 

Night  in  tin-  Fisherman's  Hut,  A. 

Swallow,  The  

Part      I.     The  Kislifnuan's  Daughter 

240 

Part    II.     The  Legend  of  Lord  Kosen- 

TANNHAUSER          

272 

crantz        .... 

241 

Terra  Incognita        

191 

l*iirt  III      Daybreak 

248 

To 

Part  IV.    Brwikfast    .'.'.'. 

244 

To  Cordelia      

Novel,  The       

I'.i4 

To  Mignonne       

North  Sea,  The    

239 

To  the  Queen  of  Serpents 

•_>:;i  ; 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM   PETER  RON- 

On  my  Twenty-fourth  Year     . 

no 

SARD. 

On  the  Sea  

188 

"  Voici  le  Bois  que  ma  Satncte  An 

Once         

176 

gelette  "  

•_']<> 

"  Cache  pour  cette  Nuict  " 

211 

Parting  of  Launcelot  and  Guenevere,  The 

309 

"  Lies  Espices  sont  &  Ceres  " 

Ul 

Pedler,  The      

234 

"Ma  Douce  Jouvence"    . 

211 

Portrait,  The        

197 

"  Page  suy  Moy  "  

211 

Prayer,  A         

253 

•  '  Prensus  in  JEgKO  "   

189 

Vampyre,  The  

182 

Progress  

196 

Venice  

187 

Prophet  The       ...... 

391 

Vision  A.        .        .        .        .        .        . 

170 

Psalm  of  Confession,  A   .        .        . 

257 

Vision  of  Virgins,  A     

na 

Voice  across  my  Spirit  falls,  Thy    . 

385 

Queen  Guenevere         

383 

223 

WANDERER,  THE. 

Dedication.    To  J.  P.  . 

157 

Remembrance,  A         

192 

Prologue. 

Requiescat        

261 

Part     L     

158 

Retrospections     

385 

Part   IL         

163 

Root  and  Leaf  

173 

Part  III  

164 

Ruined  Palace,  The     

385 

Book     I.    In  Italy 

168 

Book    II.     In  France 

189 

Seaside  Songs,    I  

378 

Book  III.     In  England  . 

212 

II  

378 

Book  IV.     In  Switzerland 

288 

See-Saw    

218 

Book    V.     In  Holland  . 

225 

Shore,  The   

238 

Book  VI.    Palingenesis    . 

M 

Silence     

184 

Epilogue. 

Since    

176 

Part     I  

261 

Small  People    

235 

Part   II  

2(W 

Soli"       .           .           .           • 

206 

Part  IIL                 .... 

•-MK: 

Song                                                         . 

377 

Want        

391 

Sono* 

389 

Warnings      ....... 

173 

397 

Wealth      

80] 

Sorcery                                                         • 

208 

Wife's  Tragedy,  The    

361 

Soul's  Loss  A          ..... 

356 

Soul's  Science,  The      

257 

"  Ye  seek  Jesus  of  Nazareth  which  was 

Suriiiif  and  Winter  . 

388 

crucified"         

247 

THE  END. 


001  130  606 


